


Breath By Breath

by Emily Waters (missparker)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/Emily%20Waters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When someone tries to break in to Paula's house, she calls the one person she knows will keep her safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Paula is asleep in her bed when she hears the noise. It's like metal against metal, a loud scraping that she can hear through her open window. It's warm, not warm enough for the air conditioning, but warm enough to let the air in through the screen during the night. It has been a mild winter. The first noise wakes up her. She sits up in her bed, jolted totally out of sleep, listening hard.

She has just convinced herself it was a dream, a trick of the mind, when she hears it again. A loud, jarring scraping. Only this time, it's followed by the blaring of her alarm system. As soon as the klaxons sound, she jumps out of bed and slams the window shut. She can see that there is something moving at her security gate. Moments later, the phone rings.

"Hello?" she says, her voice betraying her fear.

"Miss Abdul, this is Brian from ADT Home Security. I have on my screen here that your alarm system has activated. Is everything all right?"

"No," she says. "I heard a noise. I think someone was trying to open my gate."

"I'm going to go ahead and dispatch a police cruiser to your location. I want you to make sure all your doors are locked and I'm going to stay on the line until they arrive," he says, his voice the epitome of calm. "Just sit tight. Help is on the way."

It is a long five minutes before she sees the police cruiser pull up to the gate. They enter the override code that ADT has provided them and come up the front driveway to knock on her door. She puts on her robe and hangs up the phone. When she opens her door, two officers are there.

"Hi," she says, still feeling a little shaky. The clock on the opposite wall tells her it's after 3 a.m. "I'm sorry to do this so late, but I think someone tried to break into my house."

"We didn't see anyone, but we're going to walk your perimeter and cruise the block for a while to make sure nothing is out of place," the older officer says. "I did notice a rung of your gate was bent out of place. It looks like someone tried to pry it with a crowbar."

"Oh my God," Paula says.

"Has anything like this ever happened before?" the younger officer asks, flipping open his note pad.

"No," she says. "I've lived here for years."

"My theory," the older officer says, smiling at her kindly, "is that it was probably a fan trying to get close to you. We get a number of dispatches to the homes of celebrities and they're almost never in real danger."

She isn't sure if that is supposed to calm her, but it doesn't.

"I'm never going back to sleep," she says, tiredly.

"Maybe you'd feel more comfortable staying with a friend?" the younger officer offers. It isn't a bad idea.

"Yeah," she says. "Just... knock if you need anything."

She can go to Wendy's or to her father's but they're both a forty-minute drive away. Her mother is even further. She makes a mental list of people who wouldn't mind being called in the middle of the night, but even as she's listing off people in her head, she already knows whom she's going to call. Her fingers dial of their own accord.

"'Lo," is the groggy reply. She immediately feels bad for waking him.

"Simon?" she says. "It's Paula."

"Paula?" he says, his voice becoming immediately clear. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she says. "It's just... I'm sorry to wake you."

"Well you've done it," he says. "You sound frightened. What happened?"

"Someone tried to break into my house," she says. "The alarm went off and the police are here."

"My lord," he says. "I'm coming over."

"You don't need to do that," she says, quickly. "One of the cops just suggested maybe I should stay with a friend for the rest of the night. I'm scared to stay here and I was just wondering..."

"I'm coming over," he says. "Pack a bag and I'll come get you."

"Thank you," she says, relieved. "Please hurry."

When she hangs up, she finds a pair of jeans and an old button down shirt that is oversized and comfortable. She changes out of her pajamas and finds an empty Louis Vuitton overnight bag. She throws in the basics, clean underwear, her toothbrush, her travel make-up bag and a few shirts she can wear with her jeans. She can always call her assistant if she needs anything.

She'll have to talk to all her people in the morning about this, about how to prevent it, but for now, she just wants Simon to come and rescue her.

He makes amazing time. Of course, the roads are clear enough at this time of night. Her phone begins to ring. It's Simon and she answers it.

"Come down, darling, they don't want to let me in," he says, sounding serious. She is careful to turn off all the lights on her way down.

"Can we bring the dogs?" she asks. They are still prowling around on their tiny paws, growling and upset from the sound of the alarm.

"We can do whatever you want," he says. The dogs run out into the yard and she gives the police the okay to let Simon through the gate.

"He's my friend," she says. "I'm leaving."

"We'll have a report for your insurance company in the morning," the older officer says. "Have a good night, Miss Abdul."

The dogs all leap faithfully into Simon's backseat. He steps out of the car and wraps his arms around her. He looks tired; he's come in his flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt with a leather jacket over it.

"Hello beautiful," he says. "Are you really okay?"

"I just want to get out of here," she says. He opens the passenger side door for her before he gets back into the driver's seat. "I'll have to apologize to Terri," she says. "I probably woke her too."

"Nope," Simon says. "Just me. Terri went onto location to San Francisco a few days ago."

"Oh," says Paula. "Good."

Simon cocks an eyebrow at her.

"I just mean, so I didn't disturb her," Paula corrects. "Simon? Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, patting her knee as he merges onto the deserted freeway. "You can always call me. I will always come for you."

"I know," she says, because she believes it to be true.

When they get to his house, the dogs are riled up and need some attention. Paula has been to Simon's home before of course, for parties, meetings, dinners, and other miscellaneous reasons, but she has never slept there.

"There's a guest room next door to my room," he says. "I'll be close by if you need me." He ushers her and the dogs in and carries her bag up the stairs. The guest room is new territory to her. It's painted white with airy curtains and a slightly nautical feel with the navy accents. There is what looks to be a queen bed with a dresser and an oval mirror on the wall.

"Pretty," she murmurs. "All though, I don't know if I can sleep. I'll try." On the drive over, she'd filled him in on the theory that it was just a fan or someone pulling a prank, but the idea of someone coming to actually hurt her was too much. She knew the second she closed her eyes fear would overwhelm her. The dogs all jump merrily onto the white and navy duvet and curl up.

"Guess they've made themselves at home," Simon laughs.

"They always do," she says. "God, you must be exhausted."

He shrugs.

"Not too bad," he lies. "I'll stay up with you if you want. Put on a movie?"

"You don't have to," she says. "Just knowing you're next door is enough."

"Are you sure?" he asks and she nods, firmly. He leans down and kisses the corner of her mouth. "Come get me if you need anything." She watches him go back to his bedroom. He closes the door but does not latch it, which is a sweet gesture. She takes off her jeans and leaves on the oversized shirt. She climbs into the bed. She leaves a lamp on for almost an hour before she realizes it's one of the things keeping her awake. There isn't much darkness left, but it's still shadowing in the unfamiliar bedroom.

She is just, finally, about to drift off when something wakes her. A click, a whir, something she doesn't recognize. She sits up and holds the sheet to her chin, willing herself to calm down. The dogs don't even stir. The panic is real though, and climbs hotly up her face. Her feet carry her to Simon's room before her brain understands that she's moving. She knocks lightly at the door and pushes it open.

"Simon?" she whispers.

"Hmm?" he says. "What's wrong?"

"I heard a noise," she says, walking until she's at the side of the bed. His face is creased from his pillow and his eyes look glassy. "Do you hear it?"

"That's the air-conditioning, love," he says. Simon likes his house cold. "You're safe here."

"I can't sleep," she says. He scoots a bit and then holds back the corner of his duvet.

"Come on," he says, yawning. "Simon will keep you safe."

"I don't know," she says. Terri isn't here, but climbing into their bed with Simon is probably crossing some unspoken line. She wouldn't want another woman in bed with her boyfriend, if she had one.

"It's fine," he says. "We both need sleep."

He's right and she relents and lies down next to him. He covers her with the blanket and the bed is warm from the heat of his body. She rolls and wriggles until she is comfortable. Her feet find his under the blanket and he drapes an arm across her stomach.

"Thank you," she says again.

"Sleep," he orders, and funnily enough, she does.

When she wakes up, it's because Simon is breathing into her neck and it tickles. Simon has cuddled up to her in the night, tucking his face into her neck and pinning down her leg with one of his own. This is not the first time she has slept in a bed with Simon and not the first time she has woken up in his arms. When they take the private jet overnight to get to the next audition city, more often than not, Simon crawls into her bed.

She hates flying, especially on non-commercial flights and she sleeps better when he is near. This is something they don't talk about. They don't tease the press; they don't bring it up in everyday conversation. Even Randy remains mum.

She stretches a little and he pulls her closer and tightens his grip. The front of her shirt is balled into his hand.

"Simon," she whispers. This is not an airplane, after all. This is a normal, stationary bed and he feels warm and pliable against her.

"Shut up," he says, back.

"It's almost nine o'clock," she says. "We have to be on the lot at 11:00."

"I said shut up," he says and kisses her neck.

"Quit," she laughs. His lips against her neck both tickle and tantalize and she doesn't want either, right now. She doesn't want what she can't have. "I'm getting up."

"Okay," he relents, rolling to his side of the bed. "I'll make some breakfast, yes?"

"You'd cook for me?" she gasps, as if surprised.

"Even I can't fuck up eggs," he promises. "Come downstairs." They retreat to different bathrooms and she brushes her teeth before she goes down stairs. Simon is there, standing at the stove in his robe, pushing eggs around in a pan. She is still in her oversized shirt, something that probably belonged to JT. It's way too big for her – the sleeves eat her hands and the shirt hangs down mid-thigh. Still, it is less revealing than many of her outfits.

She slides onto the stool at his kitchen island and watches him closely. He looks tired and scruffy but he doesn't look mad. He looks like he's glad to have someone to cook for, to have someone there in the morning with him. Simon hates to be lonely, she knows, though she has to wonder if he's happy to have her or just another body. He puts bread into the toaster and pushes the lever down.

"What do you like on your eggs?" he asks, opening the large, stainless steel door of the refrigerator. "I don't think we even have ketchup, so..."

"I like plain," she says. He is pushing half of the eggs onto a plate when the toast pops, and it's all very well orchestrated and impressive. He sits next to her with his own plate and offers her a fork. She takes it and their fingers touch; it makes him smile. "This is great."

"I know," he says, cocky as ever. She feels, she realizes, perfectly content and safe. She stops eating and rests her head against his shoulder. She can't articulate how grateful she is for him – she's tried. He drops a kiss on her head.

They both hear the sound of a key sliding into a lock and then the front door opening. Paula sits up straight and looks at him questioningly. He shrugs. When Terri walks into the kitchen, he looks just as surprised as Paula feels.

"What is going on here?" Terri asks, pushing her sunglasses up on her head. She and Paula have an understanding that the flirting is for the show and Terri is always very amiable on film, now she looks actually pissed. Paula looks down at her bare thighs and winces.

"You're early," Simon says, calmly.

"So," says Paula in what she hopes is a conversational tone. "This isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like you slept with my boyfriend," Terri says, letting go of the handle of her suitcase to cross her arms.

"No," says Paula.

"Technically," says Simon. It figures he chooses now to embrace honesty.

"Okay, technically," Paula agrees, looking at him like he's mentally disabled. "But we didn't have sex."

"Simon, can you explain this?" Terri asks.

"Someone tried to break into Paula's house last night," Simon says, standing up and moving toward Terri and away from Paula. "She just spent the night because she was frightened." He kisses Terri's cheek. "Completely innocent."

"Are you all right?" Terri asks, relaxing her stance a little. Paula nods uncomfortably and slides off the stool.

"I'm going to go get dressed," she says and starts to walk away.

"No, finish your breakfast," Simon says. She doesn't really know what to do, but he points at the stool and so she sits back down.

"I just... no offense to you Paula, but Simon you just can't have women sleep in our bed with you," Terri says. "How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Paula isn't some woman, she's my best friend," Simon says. "What was I supposed to do, leave her there?"

Paula wants the floor to swallow her. She wants to fold in on herself until she disappears, she wants to be anywhere but witnessing this fight. But she can't look away, it's like a train headed for the edge of a cliff. It's going to be a long, painful fall but she can't stop watching. Terri looks like she's been slapped.

"I'm your best friend, Simon," she says. Her voice is tiny and pathetic and hearing her say these words makes Paula feel like the worst kind of person.

"No," Simon says. "You're my girlfriend."

Paula can't possibly listen to another moment of this, so she walks past them and up the stairs. She closes the door of the guestroom behind her and flips the lock and then, just in case, sits with her back against the door. Her forehead rests on her knees and she takes several deep breaths until she's a little dizzy from the oxygen.

One of Paula's favorite dance teachers had taught her to slow down this way.

"One breath at a time, Paula," she'd said. "That's all anyone expects us to do."

She did this now, and it helped. She can hear the sound of raised voices floating up from below but she can't make out what is being said, which is maybe for the best. She moves away from the door, the temptation to open it a hair and listen to the argument. She instead pulls on some pants. It's getting late and they have a meeting in less than two hours and she is far from her home, her car, or any means of an escape.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, Simon coming to the rescue.

She is brushing out her hair, sitting on the bed and trying to decide what to do when she hears footsteps on the stairs. She knows they are Terri's because she can recognize the sound of Simon's footfall and these steps are unfamiliar. The door slams to the room next to hers. Soon, Simon climbs the stairs and knocks lightly on the door. She opens it enough to see his face and for him to see hers. He gives her a soft, apologetic smile.

"You don't have to go," he says.

"Actually, we both have to go," Paula says. "Remember?"

"Well," Simon says, glancing over his shoulder to the room's firmly shut door. "I'm not getting in there anytime soon."

"Oh Simon, I'm so sorry," she says. "I really didn't mean to cause anything."

"You didn't," he assured her. "This is about something else entirely, I'm sure."

She doesn't know what to say to this so she says nothing.

"I have plenty of clothes in my dressing room," he says. "Let's just go and I'll get decent there, what do you say?"

"All right," she agrees. She steps back and lets him into the room and he watches her gather her things.

"Just leave it," he says. "You'll be back later."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Tonight," he says. "To sleep."

"Oh," Paula says. "Don't you think I should go home?"

"Not until that gate is replaced," he says.

"I'll get a hotel room," she offers. "I really don't want to cause another fight."

"You won't," Simon says. "She'll probably go stay with a friend anyway."

"We can talk about it later," she says, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. She leaves her clothes and slips on her shoes. He leaves his robe and puts on a sweatshirt from the closet downstairs. He looks silly in pajama pants and a frumpy sweatshirt but she doesn't dare tell him so. They take his SUV, not a convertible and the farther they get from his house, the better she feels. He lets his right arm rest on the back of her chair, as he does every time they sit beside one another. She rolls down the window enough to let in some air, enough to move her hair around.

When the arrive on the CBS lot, he drives as close as they can to the entrance and manage to make it inside without anyone seeing them in their various states of disarray. Inside, there are crewmembers everywhere. They're preparing for the top twenty-four even though Hollywood week hasn't even begun. No one says anything to them, of course, though they receive a number of suspicious glances. Paula can't be angry about it – showing up together in ratty clothes is rather suspicious.

Paula stops in her own dressing room to change and then brings her make-up kit to Simon's room where he's found a pair of jeans and a black sweater. She sits in the chair in front of his mirror and starts on her face. Simon sits on the couch and watches her – she starts with the foundation and works her way up.

"You don't need all that," he says. "You're lovely without it."

"I look old without it," she says, poking a finger at her cheekbone. She'd given in when she was hired for Idol and had gotten a facelift. Now, seven years later, she could see things start to sag again, but the last operation had been so painful that she'd probably never do it again. No, she'd stick to her Botox dates with Ryan.

"You don't look old," he says dutifully but says nothing more to stop her. Ryan knocks on the dressing room door twenty minutes before the meeting starts.

"Come in," says Simon and he sticks his head in.

"Hey, have you seen Paula... never mind," Ryan says with a grin. "Hey Paula."

"Hi," she says. "What's up?"

"Just letting everyone know we're going to start soon," he says, coming into the room to stand behind Paula. He puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her temple. "Are you okay? You look tired."

"Gee thanks," Paula says. "I'm okay. I just had a rough night."

Simon, from the couch, scoffs.

"What was that?" Ryan asks him.

"It's not important," Paula says, looking at Simon.

"What isn't?" Ryan pushes.

"Just tell him," Simon says. Paula narrows her eyes at Simon who shrugs.

"Someone tried to break into my house last night," Paula says. Ryan's jaw drops. "They didn't even make it through the gate, but the alarm went off and the police came."

"That's awful," Ryan says. "Do they know who it was?"

"No," Paula says.

"Was it you, Cowell?" Ryan asks, jokingly. "Can't you get enough at the judges table man?"

"Shut up, Seacrest," Simon says sourly.

"Simon came to my rescue," Paula says, and blows him a kiss. He pretends to catch it. Ryan pretends to gag.

"Well, you can't go home. Come stay with me," Ryan offers.

"She's with me already, so back off," Simon says. Paula rolls her eyes, wondering if she should just go stay with Randy and his family and ignore these two all together.

"Thanks for the offer," Paula says. "We'll see you in there."

"And if I hear about this on your radio show, your ass is mine," Simon says menacingly.

"I would never!" Ryan says, knowing full well that he would.

When they are all ready, Simon opens the door for them and pats her butt as she heads down the hallway. It is an affectionate tap, something that says 'I'm here behind you, should you need me' and when she reaches back her hand, he takes it.

The meeting is boring and dry. It is to discuss the new strategy for Hollywood week. They are doing away with the group performances, instead letting people perform twice. Paula doubts it will be better but holds her tongue. Nigel and Fuller are worried about losing their coveted number one show in America title so they are always tweaking to keep things interesting.

"I want to beef up security this season," Simon says, out of the blue. They are about to be dismissed and Randy looks like he wants to punch Simon for keeping them there longer.

"Simon," she whispers and puts her hand on his forearm. "This isn't necessary."

"I agree," Ryan pipes up. "There are some crazies out there."

"I assure you the sets are all secure," Ken says, raising an eyebrow. "Did something happen?"

"Some whack job tried to get in Paula's house last night," Ryan says, loving the fact that he is in the know before the majority of the people in the room. Paula puts her head on the table briefly before coming back up with a smile.

"We don't know what happened," she clarifies. "The alarm was set off. My boys are just being overprotective."

"We'll make sure you're safe," Nigel assures her. "No need to worry."

"Thanks," she says.

The meeting is adjourned and Simon offers to take her home to pack a real bag. She doesn't want to just abandon her house, so she arranges for her assistants to stay there until she feels comfortable about coming back. The dogs, however, will stay in Simon's house. She can tell he isn't exactly thrilled about this but he says nothing. He has a big yard, anyway, that they can play in. She needs to retrieve her own car anyhow, and so they drive to Sherman Oaks.

He insists on waiting for her.

"Don't you have things to do today?" she asks and he lifts one shoulder.

"I cleared my schedule for the day," he admits. "I want to get you all settled."

"Just for a few days," she says, reminding him.

"I know," he promises. "Just until the new gate."


	2. Chapter 2

When they arrive, her assistants Pam and Kylie are both there waiting. Simon rarely sees any of her entourage. He doesn't get along very well with Daniel and he doesn't like to see people handle Paula. Other people, that is. Simon knows he should wait downstairs but instead he follows Paula and the ladies up into the bedroom and stands in the doorway, overseeing everything. Pam is older, no-nonsense and efficient. It's Kylie that Simon dislikes the most – she is flighty and worried more about Paula's wardrobe than Paula herself. No one talks to Simon but they all glance at him now and again.

"Si, can you carry the big suitcase?" Paula asks sweetly.

"Of course," he says with a wink and carries the bag down the stairs. As soon as he's gone, Kylie makes a face.

"Stop it," Paula orders.

"I liked it better when you didn't get along," Kylie mutters and Pam shushes her.

"The gate company is coming in the morning to assess the damage," Pam says, glancing at her phone in conformation. "You should be set to come back by the weekend."

"What about tomorrow?" Paula asks, tucking her sunglasses on her head. She makes one last survey of the room, making sure she hasn't forgotten something she can't live without.

"I e-mailed you the schedule," Pam says. "We're jam-packed, eight in the morning until nine at night. Do you want me to come get you in the morning?"

"No," Paula says. "I can drive."

Kylie and Pam exchange glances. Paula rarely goes anywhere by herself, even to an appointment.

"Really," Paula says.

"Okay," Pam says. "We'll be here all night if you need us." They help carry the rest of her things down and load them in the back of Simon's car. Simon helped her into the Mercedes and then leaned his head into the window.

"Straight home, all right?" he asked. "You'll follow me?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I can drive, you know, without you holding my hand."

"I know, I know," he says. "The fan club isn't coming along, right?"

"No," she says, glancing at Pam and Kylie who were standing in the doorway. "Just you, me, and one extremely angry girlfriend."

"100 quid she isn't there when we get home," Simon says.

"It's dollars here, and it's also three in the afternoon," Paula points out, feeling sassy.

"She won't come home," Simon says. Paula's face softens.

"Is there something you aren't telling me?" she asks. He shakes his head and leans in to kiss her cheek.

"Follow me," he orders and then jogs to his own car.

They drive to his house and he's right, Terri's car isn't anywhere to be seen. It fills her relief, which prompts a wave of guilt, because she actually enjoys Terri. She just enjoys Simon a lot more. She still hasn't asked him about that best friend comment. Is Simon her best friend? She doesn't even have to think about it. He is.

In the house, they carry her things to the guest room. Taped to Simon's door is a note that Paula sees first. She takes it down and reads it quickly, before handing it to Simon.

Simon,

I've gone to stay with Lily in San Diego for a few days. Don't worry, this time I'll call before I come home.

Terri

Simon crumples the notes and puts it into his pocket without a word. Lately his relationship with Terri has seemed volatile. They are always in the midst of an argument or she's away or when Simon goes on the road, Terri is too busy to come along. Paula had always thought the whole point of dating Terri was the ease of it for Simon – he'd found a girl who was willing to put up with anything he threw her way and in return she would be beautiful and by his side. It seems now that the façade is slipping.

Paula likes to think that she and Simon don't have a façade. That what you see is what you get whether they are waging war or flirting mercilessly. She is nearly always honest with him and she has never, not once in seven years, caught him in a lie.

"I'm going to shower," he says.

"That sounds good, actually," she says.

"What do you say we clean up and go out to dinner?" he says. She smiles – it sounds just right.

"All right," she agrees. He goes into the master and she gathers her toiletries and secludes herself in the guest bathroom across the hall. There is a shower on one side and a tub on the other. The shower is just a square encased in clear glass. There is a narrow window with a view of Los Angeles – other large houses and smog filled sky. She can see some trees, a few patches of browning grass. Beneath the houses and glamour of the city, though, she knows it's only the desert. Dry dirt and sand and stone under an unforgiving sky.

Along the window seal are tiny bottles – travel sized shampoos and conditioners.

She opts for the tub. It's been a long twenty-four hours and she could use the relaxation. The tub is enormous and pristinely white. She can see the holes in the porcelain for the jets. Everything in Simon's house is white and she itches to add a little color or personality but at this moment, white means clean and clean is all she really wants. She turns on the taps and rummages through her bag for bubble bath. She lines up her shampoo, conditioner, body wash and razor along the edge of the tub. In the mirror, she looks tired and the light highlights the amount of make-up she wears without forgiveness. While the water runs, she washes the make-up off and can see the tender skin below for what it really is.

Her skin has always been clear, uniform in color and texture, but now the skin around her eyes is beginning to give. She has tiny wrinkles blossoming out; they deepen when she smiles or cries. She is a celebrity and she is beautiful but she is no longer young.

She sheds the rest of her clothes and climbs into the bath carefully. The water is hot and helps to relax the sore muscles in her neck immediately. She's covered by sweet smelling bubbles and takes a couple minutes to just float.

She washes her hair first and then decides to shave. She has one leg up on the edge when Simon knocks. It startles her and her hand slips. There is a bright spot of blood at her ankle and she groans.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm almost done." She rinses the blood away and can hear him hesitate outside the door. "Are you all right?" she calls.

"I'm just..." he pauses and she can hear him sit down on the carpet. "I'm fine."

"Honey, I can't really hear you," she says. The door handle turns and for a second she thinks he's going to come in even though she's extremely naked right now. But he just opens the door a crack.

"Better?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, continuing to shave even though this is spiraling quickly into the weirdest conversation she's ever had with him based not on content but location.

"Terri took a lot of stuff," he says. "I mean, more than a few days worth."

She navigates the blades over her knee carefully – her ankle is already stinging. It's the small, shallow cuts that hurt most.

"She'll be back, Simon," Paula insists. "You've fought before."

"She wants to get married," Simon says. Paula takes a moment to consider this. She puts her leg back into the water and rinses the soap off before bringing her other leg out and lathering it up. She knows Simon can hear the water moving, that he probably knows she's stalling.

"Do you want to get married?" she asks, finally.

"Maybe someday," he says, truthfully.

"Then why not now?" she asks, tapping the handle of the razor against her slippery knee, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"I..." he falters. "Do you want to hear the truth?"

"Always," she says.

"I don't want to marry Terri. I don't want to be an old man married to a younger woman. I mean, seriously Paula, have you seen Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones lately?" He is trying to joke so she misses or ignores the part where he admits Terri isn't the one. She hears it anyway.

"You want to be with someone your own age," she says, a little too softly but she knows he hears her. She clears her throat and speaks more loudly. "That's normal. And no one will blame you for wanting to get your kicks while you're young, but if you know you're not ever going to marry her, you should probably say something instead of stringing her along."

He's quiet for a while and she finishes her other leg and pulls the drain plug. She towels off her hair, standing in the tub until the water swirls away around her ankles. She puts the towel around herself securely and opens the door to see him laying on his back in the hall waiting for her. He smiles at her.

"You look like a drowned rat," he says, pleasantly. She sticks out her tongue and steps daintily around him. He reaches out as she walks by and touches her calf. It makes her pause. "You're bleeding."

"A nick," she says. "I need to get dressed."

His fingers are still lingering on her smooth skin, and he lets his longest finger draw a little circle on her shin before he withdraws his hand.

"You don't look like a rat," he says. "I'm sorry I said that."

She's uncomfortable there, standing in only a towel with him in the position to look up it so easily.

"Being mean is, apparently, a hard habit to break for you," she says and then shuts herself in the guest room.

When she comes out for dinner, he's quieter than usual. Perhaps her last comment was too harsh, but coddling Simon never gets her anywhere. He doesn't look angry with her at any rate, and in fact compliments her on outfit. It gets colder at night, not that it really ever got cold in L.A. but she decided on dark pants and boots with a button down white blouse and a leather jacket. He touches the soft sleeve.

"Nice," he murmurs. She smiles at him indulgently. He isn't often in this type of mood. Ryan would call it brooding but she thinks it is introspection. It can be a dangerous indulgence for a personality like Simon's but they are going out, and she thinks the attention will perk him up. "I invited Ryan," he says now. "And Randy and Erika."

"Why?" she asks, curiously. Not that she doesn't want to join her friends, but he'd mentioned nothing about it earlier.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I guess I thought if it were just you and me, so early in the season, it would fuel more rumors and with Terri being so royally pissed at me..."

"I get it," she says. "Not a date."

"I didn't mean that," he says. "It just doesn't look like a date."

"Ha, ha," she says, dryly.

When they arrive, they are late. The others have already been seated and are sipping their cocktails. It would be just like Simon to be tardy on purpose, to make a little scene. It's a popular restaurant and they had stopped and smiled briefly for the photographers huddled outside. Simon had kept his hands in his pockets. There would be pictures of all of them in the tabloids later in the month, through the window of the restaurant taken with a long lens. The article would be about the start of Hollywood week and the picture of her and Simon outside the restaurant would be small and unremarked upon.

In the morning, Simon is gone when Paula finally makes her way downstairs and out the door. They are both busy and he'd mentioned at dinner the he had an early day. She has plenty to do and knows she won't be home until after dark. She feels content to let Pam and Kylie steer her around all day. Today, she is Paula the businesswoman, not Paula the judge or pop star or celebrity. There is a long day of meetings stretched before her and by the time she gets back to Simon's, she tired. His car is still gone but she has a key to his house (something he'd given her years before, out of the blue one day, and something she has not used until now). She lets herself in and kicks off her shoes. Her arches ache and she's getting to the point where four-inch heels are just plain punishing.

In the kitchen, she makes a sandwich and leans against the counter, eating it. She's still there when Simon lets himself in and follows her same basic routine. Shoes off straight into the kitchen. He has a cigarette hanging from his lips but when he sees her, he stubs out in the ashtray on the dining room table.

"Sorry," he says.

"It's your house," she reminds him. "But thank you." He looks tired and when he comes over to steal the other half of his sandwich, she lets him. They stand side by side eating quietly.

"I'm tired," he says finally. "How was your day?"

"Long," she says. "I was thinking about falling into bed."

"Yeah," he says. "I'm going to sit on the couch and watch TV."

She goes upstairs to change her clothes and even goes so far as getting into bed but she can't sleep and so she goes back downstairs where Simon is sitting in the dark of the living room, the blue light of the TV flickering across his features. She doesn't ask if she can join him, but he makes space for her on the sofa and offers part of his throw blanket to her. She tucks herself under and he drapes his arm over the back of the sofa, but not her.

He's watching the History channel, some program on World War II fighter pilots and she's completely bored by it, but she can understand the appeal of the dry narrator and grainy pictures. She doesn't have to think to follow the program. After twenty minutes, he says, "We can change it if you want."

But now she's invested in the program and she sighs.

"Just leave it," she says. When the show is over, credits rolling she turns to look at him and finds him asleep, his head tucked against his chest. The urge to touch him is overwhelming – is this sleeping man really the same egomaniac she sits next to for months filming American Idol? The man who came running when she called, who sat outside the bathroom door just because he couldn't wait to talk to her? She reaches her hand out before she really thinks about what she's doing and she touches his temple, the soft bit of skin just before his hairline starts. His eyes open and she pulls her hand away. She tries not to let him startle her, tries to keep her voice steady.

"It's time for bed," she says, softly.

"Only if you come with me," he says and she knows his voice should be teasing but it isn't, not really. Last night, she slept in the guestroom where she belonged.

"You know I shouldn't," she says.

"No one will ever know," he promises. She doesn't want to sleep in his bed just because he's lonely and likes the feeling of a woman beside him. She changes the subject.

"Am I really your best friend?" she says. She has taken him by surprise and he sits up a little. He rubs his hand over the stubble that has grown onto his chin during the day and gives her a little grin.

"What do you think?" he asks, turning the tables.

"Well," she says. "Half the time I think you can't stand me. But then, you know, the rest of the time you're so sweet or tender or concerned with me. At first, when Idol first started, I thought it was because you wanted to sleep with me, but you've never really tried to do that. I mean, not for real, so... I guess, I don't know." She knows she rambled through that a little, but Simon always understands what she means.

"Okay," he says. "Here's what I think."

"What?" she says. He gives her a chastising look for interrupting and so she shuts up.

"I think that I've had a lot of good friends in my life, but that you're the first one I honestly never want to have to live without," he says. It takes her brain a moment to process that this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her. She's about to laugh or cry or hug him but then he starts to talk again. "I can't wait to see you and then when we're together, I dread you leaving. So, does that make you my best friend? I don't know, but you're definitely the friend I like the most."

This is enough to get her into gear and now she is crawling onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck and feathering his cheek with tiny kisses. He laughs and lets his hands rest at the small of her back, right at the space where her t-shirt rides up and reveals a thin strip of tan skin. Finally, she calms down and snuggles against him. She presses her face into his broad chest and lets out a happy sigh.

"You know what's twisted about this?" she says. "No one will ever believe that you said that to me, if I tell them."

"Isn't in marvelous?" he says. She slides off his lap and plants one more kiss on his cheek and then stands up.

"I'm going to bed," she announces.

"Well, if that little revelation doesn't earn me a night in bed with you, I'm not sure what will," he says. She lifts an eyebrow at him but almost immediately gives in with a big toothy grin.

"Okay," she says. She feels a little lightheaded with his words and feels like throwing caution to the wind. She tells herself if will be like friends at a sleepover, not a man and woman sharing a mattress. That she will not think about the things men and women have done together for always, the way their bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle, since the beginning of time.

But in the darkness, he inches closer to her and soon they are flush. His body is a wall of heat next to her. He is a heavy sleeper and his breath catches with just the hint of a snore. She is tired but she lingers in the place between wakefulness and sleep. Her eyes are too heavy to open but her fingers are restless and play with the hair on his forearm where it rests against her ribs. She knows that if she were Simon's girlfriend, she would not be all right with another woman sharing his bed.

What they are doing, here in this bed, tangled and warm, is not okay. Simon would argue, she knows, that they're not breaking any rules. They're not having sex. Hell, they aren't even sneaking around because Terri is quite aware that Paula is staying in the mansion but in many ways, they are having an affair and have been for years.

It is the worst kind of affair, the deepest betrayal. It is emotional and what she feels for Simon, though often inexplicable, runs terribly deep. She tries to make the feelings interchangeable. She tries to imagine herself sharing a bed with Randy or Ryan, with Jeff or Daniel but all those images seem wrong. She has slept in the same bed with Daniel, and it was like sleeping next to a brother.

Simon's face is soft in sleep, boyish, and she forces her eyes open to take a long look before finally succumbing to her exhaustion. His bottom lip pokes out and she presses her finger to it. In his sleep, he kisses the pad of her finger softly. She takes her hand away and rolls so her back is to him. Her breath comes in little gasps. She should get out of this bed; she should go home and never speak of this. In the morning, her new gate will be installed and she'll have no more excuses.

Sleeping Simon feels the distance she puts between them and begins to inch again. Soon she is spooned against him, her bottom flush against his groin, his arm over her hip, his chin tucked on top of her head. A perfect fit, of course, like two pieces of an ancient puzzle.

In the morning, she wakes up first. Her quietly beeping phone doesn't cause him to stir and she slips out of his arms and out of his room without being heard. She showers and dresses and leaves the house without catching another glance of him. She thinks maybe he lets her go because it's just easier that way.

When she arrives at her house, there are two men pulling away the old gate and Pam is there, looking a little harried. A wave of relief crosses her face at the sight of Paula and her yapping dogs. The dogs run into the house gleefully, thrilled at being home after so long away. Paula spends her day arguing with her insurance company, the gate company, and other miscellaneous people via her phone. She is busy without stepping out of her house, and by dinnertime, she's exhausted an in a somewhat foul mood. Simon calls just before six and it's the first call she actually wants to answer.

"Are you coming home for dinner?" he asks. "I thought we might stay in."

"Simon," she says carefully, "They've put in my new gate."

"Right," he says. "But I was thinking, if you were home, I'd make lasagna. Vegetarian of course, for you." He's being rather airy about all of this and she's kind of confused.

"I thought we agreed that I would go home when the new gate was in," she says.

"Yes," he says thoughtfully, "I did say that, but I don't know if I comfortable with you living there anymore."

"What?" she squeaks.

"What if it isn't safe?" he prods.

"I can't just stay with you indefinitely," she argues.

"Why not?" he asks.

"So many reasons, Simon. So many," she says. Terri, she doesn't say, but her silence makes it clear enough.

"You still have things here you have to retrieve," he says, clearing his throat. He's probably smoking a cigarette while they speak. "Come for dinner and we'll talk about it."

She could argue more, but he always gets his way.

"Okay," she says, not bothering to hide the tiredness in her voice. "I'll be there in an hour."


	3. Chapter 3

When she tells Pam she's leaving, Pam looks like she's physically biting her tongue.

"Will you be back tonight?" Pam says, careful not to insinuate anything. Paula jokes with her staff, is self-deprecating about her love life and its many failures. She also jokes about Simon, his oversized ego and boxy haircut, but Simon is a subject her staff rarely brings up. It's like they aren't really sure what the truth is. Paula isn't really sure either, sometimes.

"I don't know," she says. "Tomorrow for sure, though."

Simon's idea of lasagna is something frozen and then heated in the oven. When Paula arrives, she takes over, adding a salad and some garlic bread to the meal. Simon doesn't do the shopping or cooking usually and looks grateful for the help. He picks the wine and pours her a small amount in a big glass. He knows she's sensitive about alcohol after all the bad press and just wants her to feel comfortable. She sips it, deems it good, and he puts a little more in her glass.

They sit at the formal dining table, which is too large for the two of them. Paula can't shake the feeling that they're just playing house.

"You don't really think it isn't safe for me to go home, do you?" she says, poking at her dinner. She hasn't been very hungry lately. She knows it's psychological, that she doesn't want to look fat once they start filming again and she forces herself to eat because the alternative is a dark and dangerous place.

"I just worry," he says.

"Terri will come home and you won't be alone anymore," she says. He glowers at her.

"Why do you think this is about Terri?" he says.

"Why do you think it's not?" she retorts. He sets his fork down on the edge of his plate. He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms. She tries not to shrink under his scrutiny.

"Me wanting you here has nothing to do with her," he says.

"I can't stay here," she says. "Either she comes home and we all know this house isn't big enough for the three of us, or she doesn't and I feel guilty about helping to cause your break-up."

"Damned if I do and damned if I don't," he mutters. She drinks her wine. "Paula, you're the one who told me not to string her along."

"Have you broken up then?" Paula asks, curious. "Have you even spoken to her?"

"We've talked," Simon says. He doesn't answer her first question which means the answer is no. This is a sticky situation for Paula. She doesn't want to be the third point of any triangle but somehow she always seems to wedge herself into Simon and Terri's business.

"I can't stay," she says for a third time. "I'm sorry."

They clean up the dinner mess.

"Don't go home tonight," he says. They are both like broken records, spinning and spinning and getting nowhere.

"I left my dogs," she says. "I have to leave."

"What if you get scared?" he asks.

"Well," she says, glancing dramatically at her watch. "I suppose you ought to just come home with me just in case." His face lights up. "Just as a transition back to normal," she warns.

"Of course," he says. "Just to make sure it's safe for you."

The new gate slides open without a hitch, which is, in Paula's opinion, a goddamn miracle. The moment they step into the house, the dogs swarm their ankles and they spend the first few awkward minutes petting them. Outside, the wind moans through the trees. The news has been promising rain for days but none has come. Paula moves to stand at the sliding door and looks out into the night. Kylie has left the pool light on and it glows turquoise. She'll have to go out and turn it off before they go to bed.

Paula should order Simon to the guestroom, but she won't.

"It's nearly February," Paula says when he comes over to see what she's looking at. "If we haven't gotten rain by now, we never will."

"This is such an odd place to live," he says. "Not your house, I mean, but Los Angeles."

"Odd compared to London," she agrees.

"Odd compared to the world, darling," he says. But she's lived here her whole life and can't really imagine things any other way. She goes upstairs and Simon follows. The dogs are on the bed so she moves the stairs away from the mattress and sets each tiny dog on the floor. They sulk for a bit – they know they're being relegated to the floor for the night and they're not pleased. Paula stands at her vanity and takes off her earrings, her headband, and all the trimmings and trappings of her accessories. She should really put everything back into the closet, but she thinks if Simon actually sees the size of her closet, she'll never hear the end of it.

"So you're going to sit on the porch with a baseball bat all night, right?" she says. He's watching her; she can see him in the mirror. He's always looking at her these days – she wants to know what it is that he sees, what he finds so fascinating. Has he always done this and she's just never noticed?

"No," he says. "But I'll beat the crap out of anyone who tries to get in." She looks at him skeptically. "I'll wake up!" he insists.

"I'll probably be saving your ass," she mutters. When he turns his back, she slips into her enormous closet. She has an array of nightclothes. She has skimpy nightgowns, flannel pajamas, oversized t-shirts, and everything in between. She settles on a pair of soft shorts and a tank top. Usually she puts on more, but with Simon in her bed she knows she'll be warm. When she emerges, he's sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers and his white t-shirt, petting Thumbelina who has climbed into his lap. She smiles at him and he smiles back.

"You should think about getting a normal sized dog," he says.

"If you mash together all my dogs they'd be normal sized," she says and he stares a minute at her before laughing.

"You're a bizarre woman," he says, setting the dog down.

"You know what I mean."

"That's what's scary," he says. "I know exactly what you mean all the time."

He slides into her bed, on the side she usually sleeps on but she doesn't make him move. In the morning, her pillow will smell like him and she'll press her face into it night after night when he no longer shares her bed. She gets in next to him and the sheets are cool against her skin.

She turns on the TV and hands him the remote. She doesn't care what they watch, but it's too early to actually sleep and she's scared to lay in the dark with him. He browses the guide idly for a while and finally settles on watching Ryan on a rerun of E! News Weekend. For all they fight on camera, Simon is oddly loyal to Ryan.

"Her dress is pretty," Paula comments. Guliana is wearing a pretty yellow sundress.

"It'd look better on you," Simon says. Paula doesn't buy it. "No really," he says. "You're stunning in yellow. I wish you'd wear it more."

It would be easy, now, to throw her self at him. Every time he says something like this, it only fuels the fire that burns low and hot in her belly. She feels restless and squirmy. She pats the covers down and moves until she finds something comfortable.

"Maybe I need a new mattress," she says. He stretches his arms over his head and then waits for her to move into his body. She puts her head on his shoulder. His arm drapes around her shoulder and it is infinitely better this way. She sighs, frustrated.

"What?" he says.

"Nothing," she says, "I'm just sleepy."

"Tell me," he prods.

"I just..." She closes her eyes and burrows a little closer. "I wish I could sleep with you every night." When he doesn't respond, she opens her eyes. He's looking at her, but his lack of expression makes her rush to explain. "I don't mean, like, you know, but just together. I'm more comfortable with you here. It feels right." She closes her eyes again, feeling embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" he asks. "It does feel right."

"But you aren't mine," she says. "I'm breaking every rule I have about you."

"You have rules about me?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. "Rule number one is: don't sleep with Simon. Granted, when I drafted that rule, I thought we'd be more naked but I'm pretty sure this still counts." He smiles and pokes her in the ribs for a bit.

"Tell me another," he says.

"Okay. Don't let you fluster me on camera."

"You're 0 for 2 darling," he says. "Anymore?"

"Don't touch you more than necessary," she says softly. "Sometimes I just want to... oh, I don't know, take your hand or touch your face but I try not to." The darkness is making her honest. She finds the truth spilling from her lips and she doesn't know why she's telling him these things.

"You want to hear something ironic?" he says. "My three rules about Paula Abdul are sleep with you as often as possible, always fluster you on film, and touch you all the time. I mean really, what are the odds?" She laughs and then he laughs and things aren't so heavy anymore. "Listen to me Paula. What we do is our business. Friends touch. Friends tease. Sometimes, friends need to be close like we're close now."

"Okay," she says.

"Now, stop feeling so fucking guilty, turn off the TV, and stay close to me."

She grabs the remote and silences Ryan. She settles into his arms and they are quiet for a long time. His chest rises and falls and it lulls her into relaxation. She doesn't ever want this night to end. He smells like his aftershave, tangy and just a little dangerous. His hand begins to move along her back, up and down.

"Hmm," she sighs. "That's nice."

"Good," he says. His voice has gotten deeper since the last time he spoke. She wants to think it's from being tired but she isn't sure. His legs are bare where they touch hers.

"We can't do this again," she says. His hand stills for a second but then resumes.

"I know," he says. She's glad that he understands, that he doesn't dodge the statement or try to make excuses. "We should do this right."

"Right?" she says, tilting her chin up to look him in the eye.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says.

"Simon," she warns but he puts his finger against her lips.

"Just kiss," he promises. He removes his finger and leans down to press his mouth to hers. They've kissed before and with Simon logic, it makes it fair game. They've pecked as friends, he's kissed her by force for the camera and she's felt his tongue move against hers for that stupid finale sketch. Now, his lips are soft and insistent, pressing into her. She opens her mouth without thinking and meets his tongue halfway.

This is natural, of course. It feels natural to have him this close to her. To feel him explore her mouth, to feel him suck her bottom lip into his mouth and nibble on in. To feel the vibrations of his moan against her teeth, and his noisy exhales through his noise. She's kissing him back, after all, matching his tongue stroke for stroke. At some point, her hands came up and now she's pulling on his neck, trying to get closer. Her fingers are in his hair and his fingers are in hers.

It hurts her neck, this strange angle and she pulls back.

"Kiss me again," he breathes. She lies on her back and pulls on his biceps. He understands and rolls over on top of her, his broad torso completely dwarfing her. He kisses her again, licking her lips. When he pulls away to kiss her jaw and down her neck, she puts her hands on his head to still him.

"Just kissing," she says, determined not to let this go too far. It's ridiculous, of course, trying to define what 'too far' is when he's in bed with her, kissing her, pinning her down with his masculine weight. She's wet, her body his thrumming with arousal and she can feel his erection pressed into her belly but she needs to maintain some semblance of control.

"Okay," he says and returns to kissing her. But she can tell how turned on he is by how sloppy his kisses become. Soon it is all teeth and tongue. Her lips are swollen and numb from him sucking on them and she's going to have stubble burn on her chin in the morning. Her right hand travels over his back, mapping his shoulder blades, the dip where his spine turns into the rise of his butt. Her left hand has his t-shirt balled in her fist. He has slipped between her legs and she bends her knees on either side of him. His hips grind into her and she can't help but move against him. They are just trying to relieve a little pressure. When she sucks his tongue into her mouth hard, he moves away from her, rolling off of her and out of the bed completely.

"I can't," he says, pacing the length of her room like a caged animal. His hair is mussed from her hands and he stops at the corner of the room, where the two walls meet and pushes his face against the cool plaster. "Jesus," he moans. "I can't not touch you."

She's still in bed, sweating and so turned on that she thinks she might just snap. It would be so easy to say to hell with it all and rip off his clothes but she's rushed into things before and she wants to be able to say she's learned from her mistakes.

"No more touching," she says. "No more kissing."

He doesn't come back to the bed but stands there with his back to her, his face in the wall. His shoulders rise and fall with heavy breathing and she wants to go comfort him but she knows, as sure as she knows the sun will rise, that if she were to go over and touch his back now, she'd be up against the wall in no time.

"Fuck," Simon moans. "This is torture." And it really is. There's no good way for this to end. Even if he does break up with Terri, it's no guarantee that any relationship between Simon and Paula would be a success. Or they could give into their most carnal desires but it could very well leave their friendship in ruin. Or, of course, they could do nothing, as they were doing, until their brains melted with unresolved sexual tension.

She doesn't want to sleep without Simon near her tonight, but she doesn't know if she can be close to him anymore. Her mouth still tastes like him, her skin tingles where he has touched her. But, again, she has lived through worse so she steels herself.

"Come back to bed," she says.

"Are you bloody mad?" he asks. He finally turns to look at her. She draws her knees up to her chest and tries to make herself as small as possible.

"It's late," she says, trying to sound reasonable. "Hands off, I promise."

"You promise?" he says. "I'm not worried about you."

"Well you promise too, then," she says. "Come on, we can do this. We've been not having sex for years, after all." He smiles a little and rubs his face.

"You're funny," he says. She holds back the covers for him and he gets back into bed. They don't touch, and she can tell he's restless but she turns onto her stomach and closes her eyes. She's almost asleep when he speaks. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

"What?" she says. "No. Why would you ask that?"

"I know I'm not perfect," he says.

"No one is perfect, you dumb ass," she says, her voice muffled by her pillow. "All you can do is try your best."

"I'm not asking Paula the judge, you know," he says. "I'm asking you. What do you really think?"

"I think that you're a challenge," she says after a pause. "But you know me, I love a challenge."

"But..."

"Go to sleep," she says. "Just go to sleep."

Simon's phone rings just after six am. The phone is loud and on the nightstand. Paula is pinned down by one of Simon's legs that had migrated in the night. She shoves his shoulder and he mumbles something.

"Phone," she says.

"Voicemail," he replies. She doesn't argue and lets herself drift back toward sleep. But the phone starts again.

"Simon," she whines. "Please?"

"Fucking bloody wanker from hell," he mutters and reaches for the phone. "Arse."

"I don't even know what you just said," she giggles, feeling deliriously tired still.

"It's Terri," he says. This sobers her up immediately and she bites her lip. "Hello?"

She can hear her voice but not what she says.

"Where are you?" Simon asks. "What happened to calling first?" Paula closes her eyes briefly, sending up a prayer of gratitude that they didn't stay at Simon's last night. She also throws in a plea for forgiveness, since she's already praying. "I'll come home," he says. "We'll talk about it." There's a long pause while Terri is saying something. "Fuck! Yes, fine, I'm at Paula's. Does that make you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Paula groans and gets out of bed, walking over to look at the overcast morning outside her window. The ground is still bone dry – no rain yet. She also forgot to turn off the pool light.

"Don't leave," Simon is saying. "I'll come home. Just stay there until I come home."

When he hangs up, she doesn't turn to look at him. She can hear him pulling on his clothes, gathering his phone and his keys. When he comes up behind her and puts his arms around her, she wants to push him off, to tell him not to fucking touch her, but she can't. She lets him hug her, lets him kiss her bare shoulder, and lets him walk out the door without an apology or goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4

She doesn't see him or hear from him for three days. It may have lasted long if not for the start of Hollywood week. Hollywood week is Paula's least favorite phase of the competition. It's brutal and if the top 24 turns out to be awful, it's the judge's responsibility. She and Simon always fight. There hasn't been a Hollywood week yet that hasn't ended in yelling or tears. Last year, she'd fled to her dressing room after the first day and he'd come in after her and slammed the door.

"It's just a fucking television show," he'd seethed. "Why do you care?"

"Why DON'T you care?" she'd yelled. He'd raised his hand in frustration and she'd, instinctively, turned her head so the blow would fall high on her cheekbone. She'd learned long ago how to hold herself so there'd be no bruise.

"Jesus," he'd said. "Do you think I'm going to hit you?" He'd put down his hand, the surprise evident on his features.

"No," she'd said, lowering her face. "No, of course not." But her fluttering heart had betrayed her and she started crying again, hiding her face in her hands. He'd pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair while she'd sobbed.

"Shh," he'd said. "It's all right. You're all right."

"I'm sorry," she'd cried. "I know you'd never hurt me."

"But someone did?" he asked.

Paula never, ever talked about Brad. Not to the press, not to her colleagues, not even to her friends. She didn't talk about the whirlwind romance, the hasty wedding, or the month of bliss afterwards. And she definitely didn't talk about the way he had changed. How he became a different person, someone she didn't know. How he scared her, how his temper seemed to be uncontrollable, or how the first time he'd hit her, she'd covered it with make-up and didn't tell a soul. Or how the last time he'd hit her, she'd been in the hospital for three days while the swelling in her face went down. He'd made a tiny crack in the bone in her face and her father had picked her up from the hospital and taken her to his house while she finished healing.

On the divorce papers, she'd cited irreconcilable differences because there wasn't a box for 'my husband beat the shit out of me for the last time.'

"I'm okay," Paula had said to Simon. "We'll talk about it another time."

Today, she is the first just to arrive to the theater as usual. Randy is next and they are both in make-up when Simon comes in with Terri. He shakes Randy's hand and kisses her cheek much to Daniel's consternation. He pats the cheek with powder pointedly. Terri hugs Randy and then leaves the room without acknowledging Paula. Simon sits on the other side of Randy, two chairs away from Paula. Randy is looking at Paula with a confused expression.

"That was weird," he says when she doesn't offer up an explanation for a cold shoulder.

"Women," Paula jokes, trying to make light of the situation.

"She's on the rag," Simon says from his chair.

"Simon!" Paula says, offended on behalf of her gender, even if it does include Terri.

"Sorry, pet," he says, but his grin says otherwise. Across the hall, the contestants are being sent through another make-up station. They all look horrendously nervous and none of them look the judges in the eyes. Randy is finished.

"See y'all out there," he says. Simon looks over at her and waits for her to say something but she refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"You look good," he says.

"Of course she does," Daniel says smugly. "She's my masterpiece."

"Thanks," Paula murmurs. She doesn't want to talk about anything in front of Daniel. She has left Daniel decidedly out of the loop in regards to Simon lately. Either Simon understands this or he doesn't but either way he doesn't pursue the conversation further.

Even when she arrives first, she's last to get out of the make-up room and she rushes to the judge's table while Nigel points to his watch, his mouth a thin white line. They have a long day ahead of them, she understands, but she isn't going to look like crap on camera so she sits down and doesn't apologize. She's only a few minutes late, anyhow.

She feels the back of her chair dip as Simon rests his arm in the usual spot. She sits up straight, stiffly, intent on not leaning back or making contact. Terri is in the audience, a few seats away from the lifted judges table, and her face is impassive. Or so it appears from the corner of Paula's eye.

As the show gets underway, Simon tugs on the back of her hair softly. He's letting her know that he's there, that she can relax, that nothing should be different. Daniel simply hates Simon when he messes with her hair.

"He gets it all tangled," Daniel has moaned before, like it's a personal attack on his character as a hairdresser.

Randy starts talking about the performance and Paula knows she expected to come up with some response as well. It's hard with Simon tugging harder and harder. When the camera comes her way, he pulls so hard her head snaps back to avoid pain. Her neck twinges.

"Stop it, Simon," she says, loudly and clearly into her microphone.

"Behave," Ryan chimes in. Simon winks at him and he lets his hand slide from her hair down her back.

"Honey, I think that was great. You look good, you owned the big notes, and you really made the song your own," Paula says, trying to focus on the girl in front of her.

"Are you serious?" Simon says, looking at her shocked. "Did you even listen?"

"Well what do you think?" she asks, a bratty note creeping into her voice.

"I think that if everyone took Paula's opinion, we'd all be listening to very bad music all the time," Simon said. Beside him, Paula gasps along with the crowd. This is harsh for Simon to say, particularly on a day he's already flirting and teasing.

"Man, that ain't right," Randy says.

"I simply mean that it wasn't very good and I've heard you do better," Simon says. Paula looks over at him.

"You're a bastard," she says softly. It's a long show from here on out. She pushes his hands away, she doesn't respond to his comments and when he leans in to whisper to her, she scoots closer to Randy.

"Come here baby girl," Randy says, pulling her closer. "I'll protect you."

Simon makes a face like they're all being rather childish and when the last contestant of the day sings, no one wastes any time in finding their dressing rooms.

Mostly she feels foolish. She always makes the wrong choice where Simon is concerned. She expects the best from him and he doesn't always deliver. She blames herself for kissing him when she knows better than to give an inch. Simon will always take a mile.

Ryan knocks and smiles at her, knowing that tensions had run high today.

"After party?" he asks. He asks after every filming and does so as a formality because she always declines.

"Where?" she says. Ryan almost can't believe it.

"Really?" he asks, excitedly.

"Yeah," she says. "I feel like celebrating the end of this day."

"Hyde, and then maybe my house for the after-after party," Ryan says. "Ride with me."

"Sure," she says. "I'm supposed to talk to Extra, but what do you say we just blow it off?" The last thing she wants to do is be personable and talkative for Terri.

"I'm sorry, where is the real Paula and what have you done with her?" Ryan asks, thrilled. "Let's go."

She doesn't even change her dress. She gathers her bag and she and Ryan walk right out the door, past Simon's closed dressing room, past Randy prostrating for the cameras, past Nigel and Ken arguing with the camera operators, and out of the studio. Ryan has been driving a new Porsche for the last few weeks and this will be her first ride in it.

"You don't mind having an old lady as your date, right?" she says, sliding into the low car with ease while he struggled to fold his form into the driver's seat – and he was not a particularly tall man.

"You're not an old lady," he says compassionately. "You're still rockin'."

"Sweet boy," she says, patting his cheek. "Stupid, but sweet."

He lets her get away with the backhanded compliment as they drive out of the lot.

"So, you and Simon were awfully hot and cold tonight," he says. "I thought you were cozy lately."

"We have been," she says, pulling down the sun visor to check her make-up in the mirror. "We just... God, he makes me so mad sometimes. Like, I've helped countless artists rise to the top. I don't have terrible taste."

"Of course not," Ryan says. "He's just talking for the camera."

"I know I always say that what you see is what you get with the four of us, right?" she says. "And for the most part it's true."

"But not with Simon?" Ryan asks.

"When it's just Simon and I alone in the room, he's still Simon of course, but he's different too. He's... it's like I'm the only person in the world for him," she says and then laughs, bitterly. "I fall for it every time."

"I don't know," Ryan says. "I don't think it's an act."

"How would you know?" Paula says. "You and Simon have a lot of alone time?"

"No," he says. "But there aren't many people Simon would drop everything for. He adores you intensely. Sometimes he can't keep his eyes off you, like a tiny dog following an even tinier bone."

She smacks him.

"But seriously," Ryan says, turning onto Sunset Boulevard, "He just doesn't know how to express it always."

"I don't even want to talk about it anymore," she says. "I just want to dance in a small, sweaty nightclub for a few hours." But when they pass the Laugh Factory, they can see the line for the club stretching down the block. "If we get in, that is."

"Paula Abdul, please," Ryan says. "Not only will we walk right in, but they'll be playing your song in no time."

"We'll see about that," she says. She of all people can understand how celebrity fades. As soon as they pull up to the valet station, the cameras start to flash. Ryan opens her door for her and they pose for a few of the photogs before approaching the door. The bouncer doesn't bat an eye and lifts the velvet rope. Ryan elbows her to say 'I told you so' and they enter into the tiny space. Hyde is ridiculously small and packed. It's hot and sweaty despite it being a Tuesday night. Ryan offers Paula his hand and she takes it as he weaves his way toward the bar. Paula can see a few familiar faces – there's Lindsey Lohan (rehab be damned) and Mario Lopez is across the room. They wave at each other.

Inside, the music is so loud that her teeth throb with the bass line. She hasn't been out dancing in a while. Ryan gets her a bottle of water, knowing she no longer will drink in public and some clear cocktail, probably gin and tonic, for himself. They weave through the people. Since the club is so small, the whole space is practically V.I.P. so Paula doesn't bother worrying about fans attacking her. She doesn't know how Ryan does it, but he finds a table, small as it is, and they nab it before it's gone.

"The others are on the way." Ryan has to lean close so she can hear him over the pounding music; his lips move against her ear. She doesn't necessarily want to spend the evening with Simon, but she still finds her heart fluttering in anticipation for his arrival. She hates herself a little, the blatant betrayal of her heart over her mind.

Simon shows up before too long with Terri on his arm. Paula sips her water and puts her hand on Ryan's thigh to get his attention.

"You okay?" he mouths. She leans in, talking into his ear now.

"I don't know about this," she says. "Maybe this was a bad idea."

"No, no, no," he says. Simon and Terri approach the table. He and Ryan do the man palm slap and she smiles in greeting at Terri who nods once, at least acknowledging her.

"Have a seat," Ryan yells. "Paula and I were just about to go dance!"

"We were?" she says and he nods. He takes her hand and pulls her back into the crowd toward the square that signifies the dance floor. It's crowded but people make a space for them. Ryan, still holding her hand, points at the DJ. Paula looks over her shoulder at Simon who is looking back at her, and at Terri who is not. Simon winks and she smiles a little back.

Her song starts to play and Ryan is jumping up and down next to her, still holding her hand and jerking it around.

"Told you!" he says and she laughs as people around her start to clap.

"Shake your thang," Ryan says which is absolutely the nerdiest and whitest thing he could have said, but she forgives him because he's excited. They dance. She specifically stays away from the choreography in the video – it hasn't hit yet and she doesn't want to give anything away. Instead she dances for fun, fluidly and easily. Ryan isn't a great dancer but makes up for his lack of talent with raw enthusiasm.

When the song is over, the whole club applauds again. Paula bows and then flees back to the table, her cheeks red. Simon scoots over to make a space for her.

"My, aren't we popular tonight," Simon says. She elbows him hard.

"Shut up, Simon," she adds in case he is somehow unclear that she's a little ticked off at him. She knows that the silence between them has everything to do with Terri being back in town but it still strains her, being away from him.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he says, sipping his drink.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she says. "You don't think I can have fun?"

"No," he says. "That isn't what I said."

The waitress comes by to take drink orders. Terri orders champagne, Simon straight whiskey.

"I'm fine with water," Paula says, sweetly.

"Oh yeah, barrel of fun," Simon says, not exactly under his breath. The fact that she could hear it means he said it intentionally loudly.

"That's it," Paula says, slapping her hands on the table. "I'm going home."

"Paula," Simon whines. "No."

"Yep," she says.

"It isn't necessary," Simon says.

"If she wants to go, let her," Terri complains, holding up her flute of champagne with a limp wrist and bored expression.

"Except I rode with Ryan," Paula says. "Whatever. I'll call a cab. Bye." She fishes out her phone and starts scrolling through the numbers on her way toward the exit. Stepping outside the club feels wonderful. The air is crisp tonight. She's about to hit send when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey!" she says, startled. But when she turns around, it's Simon's hand on her shoulder. "Oh."

"Let me take you," he says, handing his valet ticket to the valet who sprints off to get the car.

"What about your girlfriend?" she says.

"Ryan will keep her entertained," he says, unconcerned. His car comes around the corner and stops in front of them.

"Why does she stay with you?" Paula exclaims, still shocked after all this time. Simon opens the door for her and looks at her pointedly. She sighs and gets in the car. He slams the door and slides into the driver's seat.

"Where am I taking you?" he asks.

"Back to the studio," she says. "My car is still there."

"Off we go," he says and pulls into the traffic.

"So," she says. "Things are all back to normal then?"

"What do you mean?" he asks. She rolls her eyes.

"With you and Terri," she says. "With you and I."

"She's going back to England on Friday," he says, keeping his eyes steadily on the road. "Her grandmother is dying, and she's going to hold vigil for God knows how long. And then she'll come back, I imagine. And then we'll see."

"Oh," she says. Now Paula feels like an ass. She has assumed Terri's foul attitude is all about Paula but now she learns of a dying family member. Maybe Terri is dogging her was because of Paula's close friendship with Simon, but no one deserves to have a loved one die. "Tell her I'm sorry."

"I will," he promises. "We had a good shoot today, right?"

"You're the one with all the taste and talent, you tell me," she says, but she's teasing a little bit.

"God," he says, refusing to apologize but sounding abashed nonetheless. She smiles, looking out the window. When they arrive back to the lot, he pulls up beside her car. "Door to door service for you, princess," he says.

"Thanks Simon," she says. She moves to get out, but he puts the car in park and gets out to open her door for her. He waits until she gets her car unlocked before leaning down to kiss her lips lightly. She makes herself stay still, not kiss him back but not pull away. He doesn't linger.

"Let's spend some time together this weekend," he offers.

"Well," she says, thinking. "I'm going to a party on Saturday. You could come with me."

"What kind of party?" he asks, curiously. He's surprised he doesn't know about it. These days, Paula isn't often invited to something that Simon himself isn't invited to.

"A record launching," she says. "Right up your alley, yes?"

"For who?"

"Oh," she says coyly. "Just a friend of the family."

On Friday, Simon sends Terri off on her plane and then calls Paula driving back from LAX.

"We still on for tomorrow?" he asks in greeting.

"Yes," she says. "I was hoping you'd call."

"Glad I didn't let you down," he drawls. "I'll pick you up?"

"All right," she concedes. "At 7:30, please. And wear your black Armani suit."

"That's rather specific," he says. "Why?"

"The theme is, you could say, black," she says. "Just trust me."

"I wish you'd tell me the artist," he whined. "I hate surprises."

"You're no fun," she says. "Luckily I am. See you tomorrow." She hangs up before he can complain in that lilting voice of his.


	5. Chapter 5

When he arrives on Saturday, Kylie opens the door for him looking unpleasant as usual.

"You," he sneers. She steps aside to let him in without saying a word. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing," she says. "Paula is upstairs with Daniel. You can't see her yet. She wants you to see the finished product."

"Women," he mutters.

"Wait in there," she says, pointing to the sofa in the living room. He takes a seat, glancing at his watch. Kylie stomps up one of the staircases.

"HE'S HERE," she yells and Simon once again wonders why Paula hires such petulant children as assistants. Jeff is sitting at the kitchen table working on his laptop.

"Ignore her," he says.

"I always do," Simon replies.

"She's just mad. Paula was going to take her tonight until she gave the ticket to you," Jeff explains, even though Simon clearly doesn't care one way or the other.

"Who exactly are we going to see?" Simon asks. Jeff rolls his eyes.

"I promised not to ruin the surprise," Jeff says, clearly exasperated. "My promise involved votive candles and hand holding and a spirit circle so please don't make me tell you."

"Good lord," Simon mutters. "She's completely nutters."

"Yep," he says. Simon can hear voices and then heels on the stairs.

"Finally," he calls. Daniel sprints down first.

"She looks hot," he says, wringing his hands to Simon. Simon, though he wouldn't admit this out loud to Daniel, as he would probably take it as a compliment, thinks Paula always looks hot. "You ready?"

"I was ready 15 minutes ago," Simon says. "Paula are we going or..."

Paula smirks as the words die on Simon's lips. She's wearing all black, of course, but it is a far more risqué outfit than she usually wears. She's wearing a black corset, a black mini skirt, and black boots with at least four-inch heels that go up to her mid thigh. Her hair his in big cascading curls and her make-up is severe; dark, smoky eyes and red lips.

"Sorry," she apologizes. "I'm ready."

Simon grapples for words for a moment, his mouth hanging open like a fish.

"I know," Daniel says. "Even I would fuck her." Paula smacks him in the ribs.

"It's a theme party," Paula explains.

"Is the theme Simon Cowell's ultimate fantasy?" Simon asks. Paula smiles.

"Wait, I get punched and he gets a smile?" Daniel asks.

"Okay," Paula says. "We're leaving. Everyone out of my house."

"I'll lock up," Kylie says, still bratty at the top of the stairs.

"Thanks," Paula says. "I'm driving, come on."

"You?" Simon asks. He rarely rides anywhere with Paula; she is a nervous driver on the best of days.

"Me," she says. "I'm taking you out, remember?" Paula's car is nice. She has a relatively new Porsche Cayenne in white and inside he brushes his fingers over the leather.

"Nice," he says.

"Thank you," she answers. The engine purrs when she starts the ignition and she pulls out of the driveway smoothly, which is a good sign in Simon's opinion. "How was Terri?" she asks.

"All right," he says. "While I'm sad about her family, I'm sort of relieved to be free of her for a while."

Paula tsks quietly.

"What?" he says.

"Don't you think you should be sad when your loved ones leaves?" she asks.

"I am a little," he argues. "I'm not going to apologize for needing a break from her."

"All right," she says. "Let's not fight tonight, okay? Let's just have fun."

"Agreed," he says. When they pull up to the venue, it's already filled with people. Simon looks at the huge poster outside that is lit up by several spotlights. "Darling," he says.

"Hmm?" she says, navigating her car into the valet line.

"Is your friend of the family Janet Jackson?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, grinning. The valet opens her door and she steps out, handing him the key while Simon lets himself out. There isn't really a red carpet, only a little press but enough so that they have to pose for a moment before approaching the entrance. Simon, who'd had mixed feelings about the night suddenly is excited. He'd been envisioning a night of listening to some independent nobody that Paula had taken under her wing. This was a big event, this party, and he is glad to be here. Everyone around them is done up in black. There is a lot of leather, of shiny, tight bodies. Everyone working the event has riding crops. The album is called Discipline after all. Paula fits right in.

He reaches the door first and looks up at the bouncer who is so large he looks as if he could have, or already did, eat Randy Jackson.

"Simon Cowell," says Simon. The bouncer doesn't even give Simon the courtesy of glancing at the clipboard in his hand.

"You're not on the list," he says.

"He's with me, Bobby," Paula says, catching up with Simon. The bouncer's face splits into a grin.

"Hi Miss Paula," he says. Paula hugs him and he lifts her several feet off the air into a hug.

"It's good to see you," she says when her feet hit the ground again. "How've you been?"

"Can't complain," Bobby says.

"Simon, Bobby has worked for the Jackson family for, gosh, as long as I've known them," she explains.

"Nice to meet you, sir," Bobby says, polite now that he can see his connection to Paula. He lifts the rope to let them in. "Enjoy your evening."

"He seems like a nice fellow," Simon says, a little sarcastically.

"He takes his job seriously," Paula says. Inside isn't too crowded. Simon can see other record label executives that he knows and he gives a few nods here and there. Paula seems to know everyone and wastes no time schmoozing her way around the room. Simon hasn't ever met Michael Jackson and wonders briefly if he will tonight. They have assigned seats and Paula finds them. They're in the second row, near the center. They get a program with a song list. Simon has heard a little about the album – good producers including boyfriend Jermaine Dupri. It's supposed to be her big comeback and Paula has been talking about her own comeback since she and Randy recorded the single. Paula watches everything raptly, her hand on Simon's leg.

"Have you heard any of the tracks?" Simon asks.

"She sent me the cut a few weeks ago," Paula admits. "It's amazing. I can only hope my new album is half as good."

"Everything you record is good," he promises. She stares at him a moment.

"You hate my music," she says.

"No," he says. "I tease you. Well, I don't love everything, but you were rather popular back in the day."

"Stop talking," she scolds. The lights dim a little and then the show begins. The host comes out, along with Janet and he starts pimping the album, talking about the producers, the song choice and on and on. Finally Janet gets a moment to thank the crowd for coming. Miraculously, to Simon anyway, she seems to look right at them. Paula waves.

"Hey girl!" Janet says waving back before continuing on with her remarks.

"Did she just say hi to you?" Simon asks. Paula nods. "Cool," he says.

"Shockingly, you are not the coolest friend that I have," she says, a little sassy.

"But I'm the best, right?" he prods.

"Yes," she concedes. "You're the best."

The music is good. It's a good album. Simon knows good albums and this one will make everyone involved with it a good chunk of change. Afterward, there is food and cocktails. Paula doesn't drink but Simon gets a martini.

"Are you having fun?" she asks. They're sitting at a small table and she leans over and plucks the olive from his glass and pops it into her mouth. It's a familiar action and he's inordinately pleased that she has no reservations about doing it. It means they are close, that they are good friends.

"Yes," he says. "I'm glad you kicked Kylie to the curb for me."

"She's such a drama queen," Paula says, chewing her olive.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black," he teases and she scrunches her nose at him.

"Shush," she says. "I'm a celebrity, I get to be dramatic."

"Lord," he says and sips his drink. "Want to hear something crazy?"

"Yep," she says, eyeing the cheese and crackers on his little white plate. He pushes it over to her and she looks pleased.

"I've never met Janet Jackson. Or Michael Jackson," he says. Her eyes go wide, a square of cheese half way to her mouth.

"Seriously?" she asks.

"I think I met Tido once," he says, trying to remember.

"I'll introduce you," Paula says, putting the cheese in her mouth. "Come on, let's go find her." She takes his hand and she weaves them through the crowd. Janet is holding court with Jermaine and she smiles when she sees Paula approaching. Paula hugs her.

"So good," Paula says. "I can't stop listening to it."

"Thank you!" Janet says.

"Do you know Simon Cowell?" Paula says, stepping aside to introduce him.

"Not officially," Janet says, shaking his hand.

"Love your work," he says with a bright smile.

"Thank you," she says again. "I kind of feel like I know you, from watching the show."

"You watch Idol?" he asks, surprised. It shouldn't surprise him – 30 million people watch it every week.

"Of course," Janet says, smiling at Paula. "We go way back, you know."

"Way, way, way back," Paula says. "Too long."

"Where does the time go?" Janet asks. "Anyway, we should do lunch this week."

"Yes!" Paula says. They hug again before saying their goodbyes. Back out in the crowd, Simon walks with his hand on the smallest part of her waist where the corset pulls in everything tightly.

"Wow," he says.

"Even you can still be star struck, I see," she says. "Hey, so I'm starving."

"I noticed," he says.

"Do you want to go get some real food?" she asks. The party will go on for another hour or so, but the interesting part is through. If they stay it will be for the open bar and small talk and surprisingly, Simon is in the mood for neither.

"Yes," he says. "I think I saw a frozen pizza in my freezer."

"Oh my God that sounds amazing," she says. "Let's go."

She lets him drive her car even though he's the one who has been drinking. One martini won't cause him to drive the wrong way on the freeway or anything, but still, it's another example of twisted Paula logic. She scoots her chair back so she can extend her legs.

"These boots are killing me," she complains.

"Those boots are extremely naughty and hot," he says. "You should wear them every day."

"Ha," she says. "I would be crippled inside a week."

"Sacrifices must be made," he says. "Pain is beauty."

"You would know," she says. But she can't really judge – they both love their Botox. Simon drives fast, showing Paula what her car can really do. He takes the back highways to his house in the hills and while it's not faster, he makes good time with his lead foot. Paula doesn't complain about his driving and he likes that about her. Terri nags him in the car, endlessly. He can't even sit at a stop light up to her standards. But Paula isn't like that.

They enter the house through the garage.

"Will you help me with these?" Paula asks, dropping her purse to the tile and sticking out one of her legs. "The zipper is in the back and I can't reach it very well."

"You want me to unzip your hooker boots for you?" he asks. "Are you sure this isn't a fantasy?"

"Never mind," she says, but turning in the corset is hard and he immediately takes pity on her and kneels down behind her. The zipper is black, too, and he runs his finger along the top of the boot, searching for the release. Paula is very still. He pulls the first zipper down a little too slowly and reveals not the bare leg he expected but black thigh high stockings. He does the other boot and then walks around to face her. She puts her hands on his shoulders to steady her self as she steps down from the boots, losing several inches. "Thank you," she says, quietly.

"You are an evil temptress," he says.

"Ah, but I'm the only one who can successfully cook the pizza," she counters.

"This is true," he says. They move into the kitchen, Paula tiny in her nearly bare feet. She makes herself right at home but rummaging around in his freezer, producing the plain cheese pizza quickly.

"I'm going to eat you," she says in a singsong voice, tossing the box onto the counter. Talking to food is just another Paula quirk that Simon has accepted over the years. She opens the refrigerator and starts digging around. Soon she reemerges with an armful of vegetables. Simon sits down on a stool and stays out of her way. She doesn't ask him where anything is, content on looking through every drawer and cabinet until she finds what she needs – a cutting board and a knife. She hums while dicing the vegetables and slides them on to the frozen pizza. She catches Simon's eye.

"What?" she asks.

"You're making my junk food healthy," he accuses.

"I'm trying to," she says. "At least give it a little help. It'll still taste good."

She turns on the oven and slides the pizza in. She turns around and closes the oven door with her foot and then leans onto the counter and lets her chin rest in her hands.

"What should we do until it's ready?" she asks.

"What would you like to do?" he asks. She tilts her head and puts on an expression of deep concentration.

"Prank call Randy?" she says, seriously before a full on laugh escapes from her mouth. He can't help but join in. "I'm tired," she explains, wiping her eyes.

"Let's watch a movie," he says and her eyes light up.

"That's my favorite thing," she says.

"I know!" he replies. In the media room, the flat screen TV is mounted onto the wall and the entertainment center is filled with DVDs. "I have no idea what's here. I didn't buy most of these," he says, perusing the collection. "Except for the complete Fawlty Towers. That's mine."

"Fawlty what?" she asks. He groans.

"I'm going to pretend you never said that," he says. In the other room, Paula's phone begins to ring.

"Whoops," she says. "I've been ignoring that all night." She rushes from the room and he can hear her cursing as she digs through her purse and it sounds like, to him, that she stumbles over one of her shoes on the way. She comes back in staring at the phone. "Simon, I have twelve voicemails." The phone beeps. "Thirteen," she corrects.

"Christ," he says. "Don't you have a secretary?"

"Of course," she says. "You pick the movie. I'm going to step out and check these, okay?"

She's gone forever, it seems. The oven beeps and he has to figure out how to pull out the pizza by himself. Through the French doors that lead to the backyard, he can see her on the phone, talking animatedly. It's dark where she is; all the light comes from the house. The light glints off the hook-and-eye closures that run up the back of her corset. He allows himself to wallow in a brief fantasy about unhooking each one before shaking himself out of it and walking over to knock on the doors. She turns to look at him and holds up one finger.

"One minute," she mouths which could mean forever. He lets the pizza cool a little and decides to make drinks. Paula will drink Vodka, he knows, so he makes cosmopolitans. They're a little girly but she'll like the pink and he likes the tartness of the cranberry juice.

He's on his second glass and slice of pizza when she finally comes back in.

"Sorry," she says, sheepishly. "I had to talk to..."

"Don't care," he interrupts. "Come eat. More importantly, come drink."

"Did you make cocktails?" she asks, sniffing the glass by her empty plate.

"I did," he says. She sips experimentally and then makes a happy face.

"I love girly drinks," she says. He puts a slice of pizza on her plate and she uses a fork to eat off all the vegetables first.

"I want you to eat that whole thing," he says, eyeing her. He doesn't usually pay attention to what she ingests, but he's seen her on good days and bad. On good days, she goes out to eat with them; she cleans her plate. On bad days, she pushes food around and drinks water all day. When she stands, she gets dizzy and he hates her on those days, hates what she does to herself.

"I will," she says and cuts off the point of the slice and eats it to prove her point. While they are eating and drinking, finally, his phone rings and they both know that it's Terri. He looks apologetic. "Are you going to answer it?" she asks.

"You were just on your mobile for thirty minutes," he points out. "Give me a little leeway here."

"Go ahead," she says, waving her hand in the air.

"Hello?" he says. He twists on his stool a little, away from her, but he does not leave. "How are you? Good, good. Tell your mum I said hello."

Paula puts her hand on his back and rubs little circles while he's talking. The conversation goes on, seemingly monosyllabic on both ends, so she rests her cheek between his shoulder blades. The vibrations when he speaks are soothing. When he sets the phone down, she doesn't move and he reaches around to pat her leg affectionately.

"Her grandmother has improved slightly, she says," he informs Paula.

"Well that's good," Paula says, sitting up albeit a little reluctantly.

"It means she'll probably be over there longer," he says. Paula's heart leaps a little.

"Oh," she says. "Are you still up for that movie?"

It's a sudden twist in conversation and Paula doesn't want to seem like she doesn't care but she doesn't want to talk about Terri, either.

"Yes," he says. "Though I never picked one."

"Okay," she says. "But can I borrow a shirt or something? If I don't get out of this corset I might expire."

"Need help?" he asks.

"Probably," she says, seriously. "Kylie got me into this thing." Simon has a small flashback to her out talking on the phone and his fantasy of undoing the corset.

"You can use one of my shirts," he says, "Or something of Terri's ought to fit you."

"Yours," she blurts. She doesn't want to wear anything of Terri's. She pretends that the feminine things in Simon's room are mysterious and unexplainable. That the second closet filled with high heels and dresses simply isn't there. Upstairs, he rummages through a drawer and finds a white t-shirt for her. It will hang off of her, of course, but she doesn't care.

"How does this work?" he asks. He stands behind her and studies the top carefully. It is so tightly against her skin that he can't even get his fingers between it to unhook the clasps.

"Start at the bottom," says Paula. She breaths in, sucking in her body as much as she can so he can get a purchase on the corset. With a little finagling he manages to unhook the first one.

"Only 47 more to go," he says. It's easier where her spine dips in and more difficult the closer he gets to her shoulder blades. He pinches her on accident, once, and she yelps.

"Ow," she says, accusingly.

"Why do women wear these ridiculous get ups?" he asks.

"Because they turn men like you on," she says, practically.

"Men like me?" he asks.

"You know. The red-blooded kind." She allows him to continue and he finally reaches the top. Her hands fly up to hold the corset in place. "It occurs to me just now that I don't really have anything on under this."

"Goody for me," he says. On her skin, he can see the indentations the top has left on her. There are vertical red lines from the ribbing and horizontal ones under her arms and around her hips where everything was just a little too tight, She is breathing more deeply now, at least.

"I mean it," she says. "Could you step out?"

"Lord," he says, exasperatedly. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"Well you haven't seen mine," she says.

"Not yet," he counters. But he gives in and heads downstairs so she can pull on the t-shirt. She wishes she had the foresight to wear a bra – things are extremely unsupported. Even if she could imagine herself in something of Terri's, Paula's chest is at least two cup sizes bigger. She glances in the mirror and balks at what she sees – mini skirt, thigh highs, oversized shirt, wild make-up and hair. Her glamour has long since faded. She pulls of the stockings and goes down stairs. She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling vulnerable but his back is to her and so she dives under the throw blanket on the couch before her turns to her with a DVD in hand.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Elizabethtown," he says. "I haven't seen it, but Orlando Bloom is British so it can't be all bad, right?"

She doesn't have the heart to tell him Bloom plays an American and most of the movie takes place in the south.

"Sure," she says. It's a good movie, one she's seen several times. It won't be what Simon expects but she thinks it will hold his attention and give her a chance to relax. She is suddenly tired – the late night, the uncomfortable clothes, so long on the phone, and the alcohol have all come together to act as a sedative. She curls up with a throw pillow under her head and when Simon sits down, he tucks her feet into his lap. She's asleep before Kentucky even makes an appearance on the screen.

Paula wakes up far more comfortable than she fell asleep. She's in a bed, which helps tremendously. She sits up a little and looks around. Simon is asleep beside her. It's still dark out but she has to use the bathroom so she groggily gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom. She is careful to close the door before she turns on the light so she doesn't wake him. When the lights come on, her reflection startles her. She still has all her make-up on but it's smudged. In the light of morning, she will see traces of it on Simon's white pillowcase. She needs to wash her face. She uses the toilet and then washes her face as best she can with a bar of soap and cool water. It doesn't get everything off, but at least her skin can breathe a little. She shimmies out of her skirt and leaves it on the bathroom floor. In sleep, it has twisted around her uncomfortably.

She hadn't planned on spending the night. She realizes, as she turns off the light and tiptoes back to bed, that she doesn't remember how she ended up in this place and that Simon must've carried her up the stairs. She can imagine how it might have gone, him doing that. Picking her up as if she weighed nothing, navigating through doorways, careful not to hit her head. Deciding to climb into bed with her. Tucking her in.

She turns her pillow over to the cool side.

She cannot, simply cannot keep sleeping with Simon Cowell. It's totally out of line and yet she keeps finding herself in bed with him. It's like she suddenly has no self-control.

She's tired but now her brain is on, awake and churning. Beside her, Simon's breathing is heavy and deep. He sleeps on his side, curled into himself like a little boy. When her nephews were younger, they used to spend the night and they'd all pile into Aunt Paula's big bed. In the morning, they'd be on either side of her, curled up just like Simon is now.

She thinks about the last time they shared a bed, how his lips had pressed so insistently into hers. How they had lost control then, too. She rolls over one time too many and Simon stirs.

"What's wrong?" he murmurs.

"Nothing," she whispers. "Go back to sleep."

"Okay," he sighs and his hand reaches for her blindly beneath the covers. She squeezes his fingers and releases them but he doesn't let go. He wants her near.


	6. Chapter 6

Paula wakes up to the sound of rain and she is immensely relived that the promised storm has finally come. She rolls over to see if Simon's awake but he isn't in the bed. She realizes that the sound of water falling is from the shower and outside is still barren and dry.

"Damn," she murmurs. She gets up and goes downstairs to find her phone. Already she has more voicemails. It's only seven am but she has plenty to do today. She calls Pam first, ignoring the messages.

"It's Paula," she says. "I need someone to bring me some clothes. All I have is my outfit from last night."

"Where are you?" Pam asks.

"At Simon's," she says. There is a small pause, long enough to be suspicious.

"Okay," Pam says, carefully. "I'm on my way." She takes the phone upstairs and climbs back into Simon's bed. She listens to her messages – Kylie, QVC, Jeff, Jeff again, her dad, and Ryan telling her that he saw pictures of her and Simon from last night on the Internet and that she looked 'hot.' Ryan likes to remind Paula that she is hot even though they have a very brother-sister relationship. Paula is pretty sure it has everything to do with competing with Simon and nothing to do with her.

She calls Jeff first, who rails at her for already being half an hour behind schedule.

"Pam is bringing me clothes and then I'm coming home," she says. "It's Sunday. No one is working today anyway."

"You were supposed to work," Jeff reminds her. "You work every day."

"I know," she says. "I'll be there soon."

She doesn't plan on getting out of bed until Pam arrives. She should return the rest of her calls but she hears the water shut off and so she tosses the phone into the comforter, lost for now. When Simon comes out of the bathroom, he has a towel around his waist.

"Hi sleepy," he says.

"Hi," she replies. "Pam is bringing me something to wear."

"Your people are coming here?" he asks, less than thrilled.

"Just one," she says. "Then we'll be out of your hair."

"I don't want you out of my hair," he says. "When is the last time you had a day off?"

"Never," she answers promptly. "That isn't how my life works."

"That's ridiculous darling. You need a break," he says.

"Maybe," she concedes. "What are you doing today?"

"I have plenty of work to do from here," he says.

"Will you come back to bed until Pam gets here?" she asks, feeling shy. His face softens a little.

"Sure," he says. He gets a pair of pajama pants out of the drawer and puts them on beneath his towel. He leaves the towel over the back of a chair and gets back into bed. He smells clean, like the tangy sent of his body wash. His hair is damp and she breathes deeply and closes her eyes. She is close enough to him that she can feel his arm against hers. "What are we doing?" he asks, finally.

"Resting," she says. "Aren't you tired? I'm so tired, Simon."

"I'm tired of a lot of things," he agrees. "But not of this."

"Here's what I think," Paula says, rolling onto her side so she can face him. Her knees bump into his hip. He turns his head so they are eye to eye. "I have a lot of money."

He smiles.

"No," she says. "I'm serious. I never have to work another day in my life if I don't want to! And you have easily twice what I do."

"Easily," he agrees. "What's your point?"

"Do you ever just... think about leaving? Just leaving all of this behind? The mansions, the fans, the fame, the people, and doing exactly what it is that you want to do?" she asks. Paula thinks about this a lot. She spends so much time trying to stay current, to stay in the spotlight and for what? She doesn't need to earn a living any longer. She knows how to take care of herself, even if her staff doesn't believe it. She wonders what it could be like if she just moved away from the United States, found a house in the country in Europe and did whatever she wanted. But she doesn't want to leave her father and his failing health, or Wendy and the boys, or her mother. She really doesn't want to leave Simon.

"Sometimes," he says. "But I like my life."

"I know," she sighs. "I like mine too."

"But?" he asks.

"It doesn't matter how much money you have," she decides aloud. "People still get hurt. I have millions and millions of dollars and I still can't kiss you whenever I want to."

"You can," he says.

"I still can't fix my neck or dance like I used to," she continues.

"Paula," he says. "You can kiss me."

"No," she says, biting her lip. "I can't."

"You shouldn't," he corrects. "But you can. And you will."

"I haven't brushed my teeth," she argues weakly.

"I don't care," he says, pulling her close to him. She tilts her head a little, so their noses don't bump. They don't kiss at first, just put their mouths together. He's waiting for her to give in, to let him know that this is okay. It isn't, that's the whole point, but she moves against him first. He tastes minty enough for the both of them, anyway.

Kissing Simon has always been an exercise in control. Now, though, there is no rush. They kiss languidly and oh so slowly. It takes several minutes for him to swipe his tongue along her bottom lip, asking for entrance. The room is quiet except for the wet noise their mouths make as they come together and apart. She doesn't worry about being pretty enough for him, about the things she needs to do today, if her hair is getting in the way, how she's going to feel later. His hands don't wander; they are firmly planted, one at the small of her back and the other cupping her face softly.

It's a little bit like high school, in a way, only going so far. It's comfortable and while, of course, her body is more than willing and ready to take things farther, her mind and her heart are content.

When the doorbell rings, she is flushed and dizzy.

"I'll go," she says, and her voice sounds like it's lodged deep in her throat. He kisses her nose.

"Okay," he says. She manages to go down the stairs without falling and looks through the peephole before opening the door. If Pam is shocked by her attire – her mussed hair or her red cheeks, she says nothing.

"Thank you," Paula says, accepting the duffel bag that Pam hands to her.

"Do you want me to stay?" Pam asks. "Do you need me to drive you?"

"No," says Paula. "I have my car."

Pam seems reluctant to leave. She hems and haws.

"What?" Paula asks.

"Jeff wants me to wait for you," she says. "He seems to think you're never actually coming home."

"Do you work for me or for Jeff?" Paula asks. She has to squint to see Pam clearly. Behind her, the sun is burning through the morning fog and coming out brightly. No rain, then. Never any rain.

"You," Pam says.

"Then I'll see you at home," she says, and shuts the door. She carries the bag upstairs and puts it on the bed. Simon has pulled on jeans and watches her open the bag. Inside, she finds a brand new toothbrush, still in the wrapper.

"Is that for you to leave here?" Simon asks. Paula knows that's exactly why Pam put it in there instead of her normal, everyday electric toothbrush.

"Um," says Paula, unsure of how to respond.

"You can," Simon says. "If you'd like."

"Okay," she says. She rips open the package intent on using it immediately. Simon steps out of her way so she can go into the bathroom and borrow a dab of his toothpaste. She brushes her teeth, wipes her face on his handtowel, and drops the toothbrush into the holder next to his. She already feels better.

"Do you want to shower?" he asks.

"I can just do it at home," she says.

"I wish you would make yourself at home here," he says pointedly. "If you're going to be spending a lot of time here, you should be comfortable."

"Am I going to be spending a lot of time here?" she asks.

"If I get my way you are," he says. He winks at her. "I always get my way."

"You do, don't you?" she asks. "All right. I'll shower." She picks up her bag and closes the door behind her. Her clothes fall into a pile at her feet and she snags his razor before turning on the water and stepping into the shower. It is wide and long. The tile under her feet is coarse and still damp from his shower. The spray comes out hot and strong. She gets her hair wet before she inspects the shampoo on the small shelf. She runs her fingers over the bottles. The whole shower smells like the bar of green soap, still lathered up from his shower. It occurs to her that she and Simon have now both been naked in this place and it gives her a little chill despite the warm water.

She shaves with his razor and leaves it in the shower. She's making a mental list of things she'll have to start leaving here if she intends on staying. Her own razor, a good conditioner, deodorant, some clothes...

She is considering moving in with another woman's boyfriend.

When she's done with her shower, she wraps herself in Simon's slightly damp, slightly wrinkled used towel because she forgot about finding one of her own. She dries off and then wraps her hair in the towel while she pulls on her under things. She adds a blow dryer to her mental list. Pam has brought her jeans and a purple t-shirt, basic but functional. She puts on the clothes and opens the bathroom door to let the steamy air out. Simon isn't in the room anymore. She brushes out her hair and spends a couple minutes putting her hair into loose braids. She is too old for the style, but it helps contain the hair. She packs up her bag and goes to find Simon.

He's in his office, tapping away at his laptop.

"I have to go," she says. She speaks softly as to not interrupt or startle. He looks up at her and stands to walk her out. He gives each braid a tug, not hard enough to hurt but the message is clear enough.

"Will you come back tonight?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says, because she doesn't. "Call me later, okay?"

"Okay," he says. He opens the door for her, takes her bag, and carries it to the car still parked in his garage. He leans down and kisses her. He kisses her lips, then both of her cheeks and she hugs him. She can't and won't think about the consequences of this right now. He pats her butt and watches her drive away before going back into the house.

By nine o'clock, she's exhausted and she still hasn't called Simon. Kylie is talking to her about wardrobe options for Idol on Tuesday but she's not even really listening. She hasn't even eaten dinner yet and she's tired and bored and just wants to eat a loaf of French bread and crawl under the covers.

"And that's why I like you in jackets this season," Kylie says.

"Okay," Paula agrees, having no idea what it was about jackets that's supposed to be so good. She's about to suggest calling it a night when the doorbell rings. This is confusing – for someone to ring the doorbell, they'd need the gate code and any of Paula's staff wouldn't bother ringing the bell. Paula stands and opens the door slowly.

"Simon!" she says. He holds up a toothbrush in plastic with a small smile. "Aww."

"I thought maybe you might never call," he says. "I took matters into my own hands."

"Come in," she says. Kylie stands in the doorway, curious. "Kylie was just going."

"Oh, okay," Kylie says, and gathers her things. "See you tomorrow."

"Bye," Paula says and Simon wiggles his fingers obnoxiously.

"Can I stay?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, feeling exhausted and unsteady on her feet. She's in some pain today and she fears she won't sleep tonight, even with him here. She rests against him briefly, forehead to shoulder. When he drapes his arms around her, she hisses, jarred by the contact.

"What's wrong?" he asks, stepping back. She rubs at her neck and shrugs.

"Sometimes I have bad days," she says, honestly.

"Can you take anything?" he asks.

"I have an injection but it hurts almost as much as the pain," she says. "So I don't know. Maybe if I just try to go to sleep it will be fine."

He makes a grumbling noise low in his throat, but doesn't say anything.

"I'll fix you something. You should go lay down," he says. He can tell she really is hurting when she doesn't even offer a token resistance, just climbs the stairs wearily. A while later, Simon comes into the bedroom with a tray of food for the two of them. Paula is in bed, propped up on pillows with music on low. On the tray is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a Caesar salad, some cut veggies and dip, some hot tea, and a bottle of water.

"I didn't know what you'd want, so I brought you some comfort food," he says, setting the tray across her lap.

"Thanks," she says softly. He sits next to her and together, they pick at the food. She is hungry but doesn't have the energy to keep feeding her self and she gives up long before he does. The dogs mill around at their feet, unsettled because their mistress is so out of sorts.

"Paula?" he says.

"Hmm?"

"I want you to take your injection," he says. "I'll help you."

"It hurts," she says. Simon knows that Paula can endure pain, that she's doing so now and that the injection must really ache if she's so reluctant but he pushes.

"Please?" he says. "For me?"

"Okay," she says. He finds it on the bathroom counter and reads the instructions. She could do it herself, he knows, and so he can help her with this. She lays back setting the tray of food aside and pulls up her t-shirt to reveal her flat, tan stomach. "Here," she says, pointing to a spot to the right of her belly button, above her hip. "You have to hit me, first."

"What?" he asks.

"To stimulate the blood flow. Just give me a good slap like you've always wanted to," she tries to joke. He shakes his head.

"I can't hit you," he says. "You do it." She rolls her eyes and slaps herself a few times, hard enough for the sound to ring out. He winces and takes the cap off of the injector. The needle inside is enormous and he knows that he has to leave it in her for several seconds while the medicine seeps into her.

"Push the button," she instructs. "Hold it down and count to ten."

He presses it against her red skin and they both take a breath.

"Ready?" he says. She compresses her mouth and nods. He presses the buttons and she gasps, her eyes watering immediately. It's the hardest thing, keeping his hand on the button knowing that it's causing her pain. They count together, silently and when time is up he releases his thumb and the needle slides out of her skin. She relaxes against her pillows, her breath shaky. A few tears seep from her eyes. He takes a few tissues from the nightstand and hands her one. She dabs at her eyes while he presses a tissue to the injection sight where a small drop of blood has swelled and threatens to run down her side and onto the cream bedspread. "All right then?" he asks.

She doesn't answer.

"It will help," he assures her as much as himself. He removes the tissue to make sure she isn't bleeding and the disposes of it and the empty injector. He lies down next to her and rubs his hand on her exposed and now tormented belly, soothing and warm. "It will help," he says again.

She can already feel the medicine coursing through her. It doesn't stop the pain, but it dulls it, numbs it and makes everything around her sound far away. Simon next to her helps anchor her to the moment, otherwise she feels as if she might float away. The ipod docked near her bed sends out melancholy piano notes that hover in the air and linger in her ears. Simon murmurs reassuring words into the skin of her shoulder. She can't hear what he's saying but they make her feel better regardless.

The medicine doesn't knock her out but it pins her down. It makes her limbs heavy and she feels like she's under a wet blanket. Simon has been asleep for hours now, though he too is restless. He mumbles in his sleep, his accent thick and hard to understand. She can't stay in this bed, though. The sheets feel hot and itchy against her skin and she struggles against her grogginess to put her feet on the floor. Everything sways dangerously for a moment and she has to sit down again while the world reorients.

Downstairs is dark and quiet. The clock on the microwave glows green and casts eerie shadows on her appliances. She rests for a moment with her back against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. She stumbles a little on the step down into her living room and then sprawls over the couch. The upholstery is cool and feels good against her fevered skin. She lays there for sometime before she hears Simon coming down the far staircase. He turns on the light in the main foyer and looks around, rumpled and squinting.

"Paula?" he asks, finally spotting her on the couch. He comes over and looks down at her.

"Hmm?" she sighs in response.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I had to lay down," she says.

"Why did you get out of bed?" he asks but she doesn't respond. He presses his hand against her forehead and feels that she's warm. "Paula?"

Her lack of response worries him. He picks her up, sliding an arm under her neck and knees and lifts. She's always light, but when she's so limp in his arms it's hard to navigate. He carries her back to bed, and then forces two Advil down her to help with the fever. He cracks a window so the air will cool for her.

In the morning, Paula has no memory of getting out of bed.

"I did what?" she asks, watching Simon shave over her sink. She sat on the edge of the tub feeling better.

"You were on the couch," he says. "I have no idea why you got up so I put you back to bed and gave you something for the fever."

"I feel okay now," she says. He leans over and touches her cheek, which is cool and normal now. He leaves a dab of shaving cream on her face and she wipes it off with a hand towel, making a scowl.

"Good thing you didn't decide to go for a swim or drive somewhere," Simon says. "Good thing I was here."

"Good thing," she echoes. She watches him shave along his jaw line, his movements careful and practiced.

Later, long after Simon has left, Paula overhears Kylie and Carol, her office manager, gossiping.

"They're practically living together," Kylie says, her voice clear as a bell to Paula who is standing just around the corner. "All the shit she's talked about him over the years and now they're screwing?"

"What about the girlfriend?" Carol asks.

"Across the pond," Kylie says. "I didn't think Paula had it in her to be the other woman."

"Pfft," Carol says, which means she clearly thought that Paula was other woman material all along. Paula backs up and then makes noise coming down the hall. The two of them don't even have the decency to look guilty. Paula is curt with them all day and when Simon calls her, she leaves the room so no one can overhear.

"My staff thinks we're having sex," she blurts, holed up in the laundry room with the door shut. She sits on her dryer, her feet swinging.

"So?" he says, arrogantly.

"So what if one of them runs to some tabloid or something?" she asks.

"Don't you trust your staff?" he counters.

"Sometimes I don't trust anybody," she says.

"That's gloomy," he says. "Well, love, I don't know what to tell you. We both know that we're not having sex and that has to be good enough."

But what is good enough anymore? This question plagues Paula for the rest of the day, makes her send everyone home an hour early, makes her text Simon telling him she needs some alone time and that she'll see him for Idol in the morning.

Still, the night is surprisingly long without him.


	7. Chapter 7

She meets Kylie and Daniel on the lot. Kylie is already hanging up several outfits in her dressing room and Daniel is on his phone and blows her a kiss when she comes in. When he gets off the phone he kisses her on each cheek.

"Did you sleep?" he asks. She sits down on the sofa and shrugs rather listlessly.

"I guess," she says. Daniel looks perturbed.

"Kylie, why don't you do a Starbuck's run?" he says. Kylie knows when she's being sent away but, for once, doesn't complain. "Paula, how long have we been friends?" Daniel asks rather pointedly for so early in the morning.

"Please don't make me do math," Paula says. "What's your point?"

"When are you going to talk to me about this Simon thing?" he asks.

"What Simon thing?" she says, inspecting her cuticles. Her nail polish is a dark red, so dark that it toes the line of being black.

"I'm trying not to be hurt by your lack of confidence in me," he says. "I really am. I'm not a moron."

"I didn't call you a moron," she says.

"You used to tell me everything," he says. "I'm your best friend!"

It is her instinct to tell him that no, he isn't. That Simon is. That he has been replaced but they are cruel words and she doesn't have the heart to say them, even if they are true.

"What is it that you want to know?" she says.

"When did you start doing it?" he asks.

"We're not," she says.

"You're not sleeping together?" he says, in total disbelief.

"We're not having sex," she corrects. "A subtle yet important difference."

"Wait, wait, wait," Daniel says. "Every time you all have your little sleepovers, you're in the same bed but you're not having sex?"

"Yep," she says. "We're just friends." Daniel stares at her.

"Can I be honest?" he says.

"Okay."

"That is the most fucking retarded thing I've ever heard," he says. She's a little shocked and it shows on her face. "I mean come the fuck on."

"It's not..."

"You two are not just friends," Daniel says, cutting her off. "People don't do what you're doing."

"We've shared a bed," Paula points out. The hair on the base of her neck is on end; she feels attacked.

"I'm not Simon," he says. "I'm gay for one. And secondly, you haven't been secretly in love with me for years."

"I'm not..."

"Sweetie," Daniel says. "Why are you doing this to yourself? What about when the girlfriend comes home? What then?"

"This is," she closes her eyes and presses her fists against her eyes until her vision swims light and dark. She is flustered and having trouble finding the right words. "This is why I haven't been talking to you." She lets her vision clear and the look on his face is so condescending and holier than thou that she wants to smack him. "I'm so tired of being handled by everyone."

"I'm not handling you," he says.

"The hell you aren't," she says. "You think I don't know what you all are saying behind my back?" Daniel's silence confirms that it isn't just Kylie and Carol running the interoffice gossip. "Sometimes I just think about starting all over."

"I'm sorry I asked," he says, pulling away. She and Daniel don't have a lot of serious conversations and this one has ended badly.

"I just want to get through this day," she says. "We can talk about this at staff, if you think it's something that needs to be address in regards to running my business."

"Yes ma'am," he says, matching her professional tone.

In the make-up room, they don't chatter while he makes her up. Ryan is in the chair next to them, and even he stays quiet. He does reach out and hold her hand for a bit, squeezing her fingers in quiet solidarity.

"How was your weekend, Ry?" she asks when the silence gets to be too awkward.

"Fine," he says. "Simon and I played Tennis on Sunday."

"You did?" she says. She almost mentions that he didn't tell her about that, but then, why would he? Not everyone knows that she and Simon have been joined at the hip recently, and those who do know clearly do not approve. "Who won?"

"Me, of course," Ryan says smugly though Paula doesn't know if he's being honest. When she was still with JT, they used to play doubles with Simon and Terri and she knows Simon is actually pretty good. "Though I probably should have let him win."

"What?" she screeches. "You letting Simon beat you at anything is unheard of."

"Well he's probably pretty lonely with Terri being gone," Ryan speculates. Daniel rummages around in his brush bag and makes a noise that sounds a lot like scoffing deep in his throat. Paula glares at him.

"Did he say he was lonely?" Paula asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Simon admit that he has feelings?" Ryan asks. "I don't think so."

"He's not so cold," Paula says.

"Who isn't?" Simon asks, coming into the room. He slaps Ryan on the shoulder and leans down to peck Paula on the cheek.

"Paula doesn't think you're an emotionless robot," Ryan says. "Which is awfully nice of her."

"She's a nice lady," Simon agrees. Paula wants to retort but Daniel is working on her eyes and she really shouldn't move. Her make-up takes a long time and soon they settle back into silence. There is noise, though; it isn't uncomfortable like before. Ryan's stylist chats on her phone and Simon reads the newspaper. It crinkles when he turns the page.

Kylie comes in with the coffee and starts chattering about outfits. Idol really takes the whole day. She gets ready, she does pre-filming press, they shoot the episode early enough so that it can air in prime time for the west coast feed, and then there is post-filming press. Usually she goes home after all of it, but Ryan and Simon tending to party after that, well into the early morning. Then, they do it all again the next day for results.

"I don't want to wear a dress," Paula says, answering one of Kylie's questions.

"I like you in dresses," Simon comments.

"There's a reason to wear pants forever," Paula retorts. She knows why Simon likes her in dresses for Idol filming... he likes to tickle behind her knees, pinch her when she doesn't expect it. The first season of Idol, when they weren't really friends, he had pinched her so hard it'd left a purple bruise. It had taken days to fade.

When her make-up is finished, she goes back to her dressing room and lets Kylie help her dress. Her shirt is so tight that Kylie ends up stitching her into it. She puts on a jacket over it and smoothes the clothes against her body. She doesn't put on her shoes until one of the production assistants knocks on her door telling her the press is ready to start the interviews.

How many hours of her life has she sat between Randy and Simon now? It's too much to ponder. She could, if she had to, break down each minute into a dollar amount. For every moment spent in this black, spinning chair, she is earning money. She can affix a dollar sign to every 'dawg' or 'dude' or 'ghastly' that she hears. Monetarily, it is time well spent.

But sometimes, she isn't sure.

They sit at the judge's tables, the microphones of the local affiliates on the clear glass. She has to lean in to be heard. It's the same questions every week and they take turns feeding the same answers. Randy says something about America being in charge, which is her cue to remind people that this is the most talented group of people ever to grace the American Idol stage. Beside her, Simon shifts in his seat getting ready for the next question. It's about the amount of experience some of the contestants have and he boringly reiterates the rule about contestants not being able to have current record deals.

"The past is the past," he says for the hundredth time.

They get 45 minutes between press and the start of the show. In her dressing room, Daniel touches up her make-up. At this point in the day, the Idol train has left the station and she's just aboard for the ride. Everything is awfully predictable this late in the game. Ryan will be in his dressing room, going over his teleprompter lines. Randy will be with Erika, or on the phone with his kids telling them an early goodnight since he'll be home so late.

Simon is always less predictable, however, which is part of the appeal. Generally, he spent the time with Terri but now she isn't sure. He could be with Fuller and Nigel, talking production. He could be in his dressing room, relaxing as much as he can before filming.

There's a knock on her door.

He could also be here.

"Hey," she says. He comes in and sits down on her couch.

"Is this night over yet?" he complains.

"If this is your mood already, the show is doomed," she says and Daniel chuckles.

"Okay doll," Daniel says. "You're good so long as you don't laugh, cry, sweat, or kiss anyone." Daniel looks at Simon knowingly.

"I promise," Paula says, waving him away. Daniel gets a seat in the audience close to the judge's table for easy touch-ups. Daniel leaves to take his seat and then they are alone. "Why are you fussy?"

"I couldn't sleep," he admits. In his pocket, his phone beeps. He takes it out and looks at it. "Terri wishes us a good show."

"How nice of her," Paula says diplomatically. She knows he talks to Terri everyday, that he tells her that he loves her and that he misses her. Sometimes while Paula is there, he says these things. What can she say? Everything wrong that they do, she participates in fully. "Does she have a return date yet?"

"No," Simon says. "In fact, I sent her more of her things yesterday."

"Wow," says Paula. There isn't much else to say on the subject at the moment. He pats the sofa next to him and she moves away from the vanity to sit with him, tucking her feet under herself carefully. On the TV screen they can see the live feed of the stage – the stagehands and lighting technicians, the musicians getting ready to go live. When Ryan appears on the screen, they know it's time to get out there.

"Good show?" she says.

"Good show," he promises.

February rolls in to March and their schedules kick into over drive. Everything becomes about the top 12 and all of her commitments get pushed aside in order to focus on the circus that is American Idol as they lead up to the finals. Once the top 12 airs, she and Randy will go on a mini press tour to promote his album and her song. There is no reason for Simon to go with them, so in the days before the trip, they spend more time together.

They have a routine now, like roommates who happen to share a bed. She'll spend the night at his house and then he'll come to hers. They take turns and the longer they play this game, more and more unspoken rules become clear. She likes the left side of the bed and he prefers to shower first. She fixes the coffee in the morning and he works the crossword puzzle in the newspaper while she does her hair. They fall asleep on their own sides but in the morning, they are almost always close together, leg over leg or her face against his shoulder. Sometimes they kiss good night, sweet and chaste. Sometimes they kiss goodnight, hot and long and tempting.

They do not have sex.

But, honestly, she thinks about it all the time now. At night, when he snores next to her, she imagines their bodies pressed together. When he's in the shower, she presses her face into his pillow and breathes deeply, imagining that smell overlaid with the tang of sex. When he kisses her, it's all she can do to not push her hand down the front of his pants. It literally takes all her strength.

When she and Simon aren't together, she's as high strung as she's ever been. She can't sit still. Daniel notices it most of all; it's like trying to put eyeliner on hyperactive Chihuahua.

"Girl," Daniel says, finally, unable to keep quiet any longer. "You have got to stop this."

"Stop what," she says, tapping her nails against the arm of her chair furiously.

"This self-torture," he says. "Remember your Spellbound tour when you hadn't seen Emilio in weeks and you knew he'd be there any minute? You used to be like this. All... jumpy and impatient."

"What are you saying?" Paula says.

"I'm saying I know what sexual frustration looks like on Paula Abdul and this is it," Daniel says.

"Simon and I don't have sex," Paula reminds him.

"CLEARLY," Daniel yells. Paula jumps at his volume.

"I'm sorry!" Paula says. "That's the bottom line."

Daniel drops it but his words nag at her all day. She does remember what it was like back then, being on tour, being adored by millions of fans but still sleeping alone. She'd loved her husband, loved Emilio with all her heart but the time apart had undone them.

With Simon, she has the other side of this same coin. She spends hours and hours with him, but he doesn't touch her that way. It's a mutual decision really – she doesn't want to be the other woman and he doesn't want to cheat on his girlfriend, as fine a line as it might be.

It's a stupid arrangement and she makes a flimsy decision to talk to him about it, to maybe stop. She'll tell him that they can't keep doing this, that it isn't right, that it's killing her, that they need to sleep in their own beds in their own houses and that this was a fun exercise in restraint but it's over.

She's going to tell Simon that this is over.

And when she makes this choice in her head, she feels a heavy weight lift off of her chest. She feels better. She feels the guilt begin to trickle away. Tonight, she drives to his house determined.

She lets herself in with the key and drops her purse on the table by the door, as is her custom now. She keeps her phone in her pocket on silent, but if it rings, it will vibrate against her hip. It's late, though, nearly ten, and nothing important will divert her attention, probably. Simon is in the office, on the phone when she finds him and from the grim look on his face, it turns out to be bad news. She makes a move to step back and give him his privacy but he waves her in and so she sits on the loveseat under the dark window. She can hear the filter churning through the water of the pool below.

"I know," Simon says into his phone. "I understand that this is important, but I just can't go now."

Paula looks down into her lap, though she can feel his eyes on her.

"American Idol is my job and I can't leave it at the start of finals," Simon says, sounding infinitely patient. "Family is important, Terri, but it's your family, not mine."

Paula closes her eyes, wills her mind to wander so she doesn't hear his harsh words. If he ever said anything like this to her, she might collapse under the weight of it.

"All I've done is support you. Maybe it's time you learn to stand on your own feet for a while," he says. "I'll send you the rest of your things, if you'd like." There is nothing but silence, the darkness behind her eyelids before his voice starts again. "I've given you a foot in the door, a nice home, a fabulous life and I just... I can't give you this. I'm tapped, Terri." Paula stands and heads for the door but his fingers wrap around her wrist and stop her. He tugs her to him and rests a flat hand against her stomach. His fingers extend to their full width and he spans her ribcage easily.

One tug, and she's perched on his lap.

"All right," Simon says. "You know you always have a place here when you decide to return." This close, Paula can hear her raspy voice through the tinny connection, she can hear tears thick in Terri's throat. "Let me know how the service goes. If I can do anything."

When he hangs up, he pulls her back against him and puts his arms around her waist.

"Everything okay?" Paula asks.

"She lost her grandmother," Simon says, a phrase that strikes Paula as odd. It isn't the euphemism she would use. It isn't as if Terri's grandmother is wandering helplessly around an M&amp;S she's dead.

"That's too bad," Paula says.

"Terri wanted me to fly out for the service, I told her no, and forty five minutes later, well, that's that I suppose."

"That's that?" Paula says. "What does that mean?"

"She's going to stay with her family through the spring and when she comes back to the states, I told her I'd help her get on her feet but..." he shrugs. "She wasn't the one and we both were quite clear on that."

"Are you saying that you just broke up?" Paula asks.

"Yes," Simon says. "I guess that's what I'm saying."

Paula's resolve to end things wavers significantly. She's about to speak when something hits the window. They both turn and look out into the darkness. The sound starts to ping uniformly and Paula stands, letting his arms fall away from her.

"Thank God," she murmurs, walking over to the window and tugging her open.

"Is it raining?" he asks incredulously.

"Finally," she says. "I thought we weren't ever going to get any rain."

"Isn't that why everyone wants to live in California?" he asks. "Constant sunshine?"

"Oh yes, droughts are so glamorous," she says, sarcastically. "I love when I can't wash my car or flush my toilet." Simon makes a face. "I'm going outside," she says.

"I'll come," he agrees and fishes a pack of cigarettes out of the desk drawer. Outside of the French doors is an overhang. Paula steps carefully up to the edge of the dry pavement but doesn't go out into the rain. She takes a deep breath.

Simon moves a couple of feet away and lights his cigarette. When she turns to look at him, all she can see is the orange glow the hovers near his mouth. She can smell the smoke but she doesn't complain.

"I came over to tell you that I didn't want to do this anymore," she says, the darkness and the rain making her brave.

"Do what?" he says, smoke swirling around his face as his words force him to exhale.

"Cheat," she says. "Or whatever it is that we do."

"Well," he says, tapping his cigarette over a patch of gravel. "No need to worry about that any longer."

"So you say," she says.

"I do say," he retorts.

"You can't just..." She reaches out and lets a few drops fall into her palm. "Six years is a long time and I don't think even you can move on in a few hours."

"I've been moving on for a while now," he says.

"Simon," she sighs. "I just don't know about this."

"No rush," he says. "We don't have to go forward, but what if we just agree not to go back?" This she can live with.

"Okay," she says. He stubs out the end of the cigarette on the cement and tosses the butt into a jar by the door. When he opens the door, he lets her walk through it first and makes sure it's latched and locked tight. She waits by the foot of the stairs while he locks the front door and makes sure all the lights are off. He sets the alarm and they move upstairs, following the worn steps of their routine easily.

She kicks off her shoes and takes off her jacket. He's in the bathroom, already brushing his teeth when she realizes that she doesn't know how she's going to get out of her shirt.

"Hey Si?" she calls, already blushing and sheepish. He mumbles a response around his toothbrush. "Do you have a seam ripper?" She hears him spit and then he pokes his head out of the bathroom, his mouth foamy.

"I don't know what that is," he says.

"A sewing kit?" she tries again.

"Um," he stalls and she lets him rinse. "Maybe? Why?"

"Kylie sewed me into this," she says, tugging at the top of the zipper. It doesn't budge because Kylie has sewn over it and each time she pulls at it, it pinches.

"Want me to cut you out of it?" he asks. She stares at him for a moment. "What?"

"Do I want you to cut me out of my $800 designer shirt? No, I don't want that," she says.

"You'll never wear it again," he says. She won't, not out anyway, but it's beside the point. "If we have anything like that, Terri would know. Want me to call her?"

"No," she says. "And that was mean of you to say."

"I'm not meaning to be rude," he says.

"Every time you say that, it's preceded or followed but some ferociously rude statement," she points out. "You do mean to be rude, Simon."

"Okay," he says, rubbing his face. "What do you want me to do, exactly?"

She huffs for a moment before demanding some scissors. He had a small, silver pair meant for hair in one of the drawers in the bathroom.

"I can't do it myself," she says. There is better light in the bathroom so she raises her arm and tries to instruct him on how to cut the thread and not the fabric. It takes a couple of minutes of his face being precariously close to her armpit but she feels the zipper give the moment he cuts the right stitch. He pulls down the zipper, a ribbon of thread falling to the bathmat to be lost forever. She breaths and pulls the offensive garment over her head to toss into the laundry. She feels better out of it and thanks him. Her bra is ivory and more functional than sexy but still nice and he touches the strap where it dips into the skin of her shoulder.

"You're welcome," he says. "Though one must wonder how you've managed so long on your own."

She has a drawer of night things and pulls on a soft nightgown while he finishes up in the bathroom. They switch so she can brush her teeth and wash her face and when she comes out, he's in bed with only the soft lamp on the nightstand to light the room. As soon as she gets in bed, he shuts it off. He has cracked the window so she can hear the rain.

This, she realizes, is her most favorite time of night – of day, for that matter. The slow minutes before sleep while Simon tosses and settles in to the mattress for the night. When it's not the world against her, when it's only Simon and the bed and the warmth that their bodies create between them. They don't talk about work or plans for the days ahead. They often don't say anything. Simon gets huffy before sleep, full of sighs and exhalations. Paula is a still sleeper, quiet as a mouse.

Simon's feet find her near the bottom of the bed and then their knees touch. Soon, he is pressed against her, his lips against her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck. It isn't that late, and she isn't surprised that he's as restless as he is. Her first instinct is to push him away and remind him of Terri, but Simon doesn't have a girlfriend anymore, so she says nothing and lets his lips wander across the expanse of skin the nightgown's neckline affords him.

She brings her hand up to touch the back of his head and his fingers worm their way across her waist.

They only do this in the darkness. If she were to reach up and turn on the lamp, he would stop and withdrawal. He would look at her questioningly but accept her decision.

When his mouth finds hers, she kisses him back feverishly.


	8. Chapter 8

"Can I take this off?" Simon asks.

Paula tries to remember their conversation about not rushing but it seems so long ago now. Did they decide to wait? What had she agreed to exactly? Does it matter, now, anyway?

"Yes," she says and sits up so he can pull the nightgown up over her head. She smoothes her hair self-consciously and covertly uses her arms to cover herself. He is having none of this though, and pushes her arms away. All she has on now are a pair of white panties, solid cotton with lace at the waist. He runs his hands all over her; touches her ribs, her stomach, her breasts.

"Okay?" he asks, and he'll ask it again and again though the night. She nods, her eyes closed, pressing her head back into the pillow. It isn't that she doesn't want to see him, it's that she doesn't want him to see her, the uncertainty in her eyes.

She's had a lot of sex in her life; it's no use saying otherwise. And much of that sex was with other famous people. It seems silly to be shy with Simon now but she can't help it. He's confident enough for the both of them and soldiers on while she composes herself. She can feel the stubble on his chin scrape the delicate skin just beneath her belly button. When his lips reach the edge of her underwear, he starts to travel back up. He kisses her mouth again and she throws her arms around him, trying to anchor him in place.

Things start to move very slowly. She gets that underwater feeling that accompanies being highly medicated except the only drug in her system is Simon. He spends long minutes, days it could be (she just isn't sure), lapping his tongue at the hollow of her throat, nibbling along her collarbones, sucking each of her fingers into his mouth. She should touch him too, she knows, but her limbs are heavy and uncooperative. She lies there, heavy as a stone sinking to the bottom of the sea while he touches her.

Maybe the way she participates is simply allowing this to happen. It isn't as if there aren't red flags. A little voice in her head whispering that she is about to lose him, to give away something that she can't take back. That things will change. When his mouth latches on to her breast, she nearly pushes him away. She has fled him before but it feels so good that she ignores the fight or flight feeling and tries to live in the moment.

It's a pretty good moment, after all. The man knows what he's doing. He makes her body sing and she clutches at the sheets that are dampening beneath her. He licks at the sweat that forms on her skin – at her jaw, the bend of her arms, beneath her breasts. She lets her hands move now, when he takes a second to get some air and touches the skin on his back, pale and broad and warm to the touch. Her hands slide down, down until they reach the waist of his pajama pants. She keeps her hands on top and lets them rest on his backside. He sighs, happy.

"Okay?" he says again.

"Yep," she whispers. Her attempt at nonchalance falls flat when her voice cracks but he doesn't poke fun or acknowledge. He just pulls on a lock of her hair and lets his forehead rest against hers. He is on top of her now, his body covering his and she can feel his excitement against her belly, hard and warm. He ignores it and lifts the curl to his nose. Her shampoo is sweet, like flowers in the spring, and it is a smell that he associates with her, like sunshine and freshly cut grass. Like new life, new opportunities, a nourished earth after heavy rain.

"Why are you crying?" he asks when he lifts his head again.

"What?" she asks. "I'm not."

He runs his finger under her eye and lifts it to show her and sure enough, there is moisture.

"I don't know," she says. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he says and kisses her under each eye. She puts her hands on his face and directs his mouth back to hers. She bends her knees on either side of him, making a cocoon for his body. She kisses him with renewed vigor, wanting to prove that she is not as fragile as she seems in this moment. Simon has been nothing but sweet to her, worshipful but she knows that there is fire in him and she wants to see it now. He kisses her back, sensing the shift in her. She pushes impatiently at the waist of his pants and he kicks them off, his boxers a poor shield for what is beneath. She moves her hips restlessly beneath his and he lets out a strangled noise.

She smiles beneath his mouth. His fingers find the top of her underwear and he tugs and tugs until she raises her hips and they slide down her legs. It's not a long distance and they disappear into the sea of rumpled bed linens. Suddenly she is without clothing, not a stitch and it's startling to be laid bare like this for him. All those years of taunting about what they wanted, about what they would never have and here they are, having it after all.

"You're so small," he marvels. She is, she's been small her whole life. A small baby, a quick labor compared to the hours her mother spent birthing Wendy. A small child, always in the front row of her school picture. A small woman, too small for dancing so she'd had to blaze a trail. Small standing between Randy and Simon; small, now beneath him with nothing on.

"Too small?" she asks.

"No," he says. "The right size." He kisses her. "Can I touch you?"

"You are touching me," she says. But she knows what he's asking. "You can touch me," she says. "I want you to."

And so he does.

When the very tips of his fingers slide down, they tickle her skin, leaving a tingling path. When his fingers find her wetness, damp and slippery, it feels like she's slamming into a wall.

"Oh," she breathes, scrunching her eyes closed tight. Her hips rise up, up trying to find more contact, but he keeps his touch delicate and light and refuses to give her what she wants until he's good and ready. Like usual. "Please," she whimpers.

"Shh," he soothes, which is just a polite way to let her know that she can beg all she wants but he's running this show. She bites at her lip and tries to get her body to relax, but she can't. He has her all wound up and when he dips one, then two fingers into her, she realizes that she's not even breathing anymore. He leans down and bites her shoulder and she exhales, startled and takes a deep breath in. When she opens her eyes, he's smiling down at her smug. She's about to say something, but his fingers find a rhythm and she can't speak.

She turns bright during sex. All the blood she has rushes up, boils over, and her chest and face turn pink and bright. She can dance for hours straight, run until she drops and she won't get as bright as when there is a man between her legs. Simon marvels at her, glowing like she's lit from within. She's grinding hard against his hand and her breath hitches in her throat again and again, her voice tiny and mewling. He thinks she close already, even though he's barely started touching her. Of course, seven years of foreplay can do that to a woman.

"More?" he asks but she can't answer. Her head tosses from side to side into the pillow. When she finally gets out of bed, her hair will be a rat's nest in the back. She's wild now, hair spread out beneath her, teeth bared in concentration. He can feel her clenching around her fingers – she's working at this harder than he is. When he slides this thumb up against her clit, she moans.

"Yes," she gasps. "Please." She needs more because she's right there at the edge but he doesn't give her more, he just keeps it the same – the same in and out, the same small circles, the same rhythm. She looks at him, frustrated and about to break into a million pieces. His cheeks are flushed too, and his eyes are glassy and distant. He moves restlessly, his hips into her thigh and this is all getting very serious. "Stop."

It takes a second for her word to penetrate his ears and then his hand stills suddenly and the sensations recede, like a wave pulling back from the shore.

"What?" he says, worried. His hand is sticky between her and she pushes it away, making a small noise as his fingers pull out of her sensitive flesh. It's a staggering loss but she doesn't dwell.

"Take off your shorts," she orders, breathless. She sits up with a struggle and pushes her hair back from her sweaty forehead. Outside the rain beats on and she can hear it very distantly through the blood rushing in her ears. He wastes no time in obeying and wriggles the shorts off his narrow hips. She pulls at them and helps get them over his feet. She tosses them to the floor and looks up at her prize. He's so hard that it has to hurt him and she reaches out to touch him. His hisses, air through his teeth when she wraps her fingers around him and strokes him a few times experimentally.

"I don't know what you're expecting," he warns. "But if you want a marathon, let go now."

"I just want you," she says. She throws one leg over him and hovers, glowing and alive above him. She has gained the upper hand somehow but possibly only because he is allowing it. They'll have to work this out later, the constant vying for power. To figure out who is really on top. But right now, it's Paula. His hands find her waist and settle in on her hips. He's trying to force her down on him without really making her and she tuts, once.

"Wait," she says. She reaches for him and holds him up straight.

"Do we need?" he jerks his head toward the nightstand.

"Um, I'm on the..."

"Fine, whatever," he says, glad that it's out of the way. "Now, Paula." His voice is urgent and his accent thickens in his impatience. He ads the extra letter to the end of her name, making it sound masculine and terrible in that way that she hates. But she hesitates, the tip of him just touching her, so close yet so very far. "Okay?" he says.

"Aren't you worried?" she says, her breath heavy.

"No," he says, truthfully. "I am worried that I'm going to die if you make me wait any longer," he amends. She smiles and then lets a serious expression slip on to her face. She lowers her hips and there is a moment when she has to reach down and guide him into her. There's a little resistance – she's small and this has always been a difficult position for her but she pushes through the burning and then they connect. He slides in and she sinks down and his eyes roll into the back of his head. She pushes until she is astride him and he's all the way buried.

"Okay," she says again, the theme of their evening.

"Christ," he says, because this moment has been coming for a long time and now they're finally here. She leans forward, resting her elbows on either side of him. This brings her close enough that she can kiss him. Her back is curved in like a shallow bowl. She starts moving again, up and down and they both realize this is probably going to be over very soon.

"Simon," she cries, pressing her face into his chest so she can move her hips faster. He meets her thrust for thrust and she can feel the moment she falls – her throat closes and her body is bending, bending, and snaps. She can't move, all she does is let it happen, the fluttering deep inside, the rush of pleasure and the distant noise of him crying out into her ear and the feeling of warmth that floods the room. She holds onto it as long as she can and then falls like a rag doll against him. She feels him slide out of her and then the pooling of warm liquid as it trickles out after him but she doesn't care.

He strokes her hair, his chest rapidly rising and falling, her lips against whatever skin she find without moving. Finally she catches her breath enough to end the silence.

"I'm really glad we decided to wait," she says. Her words lack inflection but he catches the sarcasm and laughs.

"I tried," Simon whined, playfully. "But you were so pretty." She smacks him in the chest and then sits up enough to roll over. It's getting cold and she reaches for the sheet to cover them. "Hey," he says.

"What?" she's tired now, and boneless and adrift in the sea of pleasure and just wants to lie there next to him for several hours.

"We're all sticky," he says. "Shower."

"Boo," she says, and doesn't move.

"Come on," he says and gets out of the bed. She pouts for a moment, but follows him. She is all sweaty and sticky and she's never actually showered with Simon. In the yellow lights of the bathroom she looks at herself in the mirror and gasps.

"Oh GOD," she moans, her hands flying to her hair, trying to sort it out. Simon turns the water on and looks at her, tousled and fretting at her reflection.

"You're just going to get it wet," he says more patiently than he feels. He holds open the glass door for her and she abandons the mirror and steps into the shower. He follows and closes the door, allowing the space to fill with warm steam before adjusting the faucet. She watches him, touches his backside because she can. He is a gentleman, allowing her the spray first. She stands under it getting her hair wet, and she feels better. The shower was a good idea. When they switch, he holds on to her so they're both under the spray and barefoot, her head barely comes to his neck.

She feels like a new person.

Her cell phone ringing wakes her. Simon sleeps heavily next to her. She gets out of bed, the morning air cold on her naked skin. She digs through her bag and finds the phone, answering it quickly.

"Hello?" she says, and looks around for something to wear. Simon's robe is draped over the chaise lounge and she puts it on. It's huge on her.

"Paula?" Her mother's voice is still demanding, despite her years.

"Hi Mom," she says, leaving the bedroom and standing in the hall. She nearly tripped on the robe on her way out so she'll just be quiet instead of navigating the stairs.

"Where are you?" her mother asks.

"Um," says Paula.

"I'm at your house. Did you forget our lunch date?" Lorraine asks.

"No!" she says thought clearly that is what happened. "I'm just running late. What time is it?"

"Quarter 'til," her mother says.

"Noon?" she squeaks. The day is overcast and the lack of sun must have let them sleep longer. It had been a long night, and the day after Idol was always kept to a light schedule since filming was so extensive and exhausting.

"Yes," her mother says. "Honey, where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she says. "I'm going to be there in twenty minutes."

"If you need to cancel..."

"Twenty minutes," she repeats and hangs up. Simon is still asleep when she comes back in and takes the robe off again. She has clean clothes at his house, thankfully, because it would simply not do to see her mother in what America saw her in last night. She pulls on some clean underwear and last night's bra. She's looking for a pair of black jeans that she's positive she left here when Simon wakes up.

"Running out on me?" he says, his voice hoarse from sleep.

"I'm so late," she says, pulling the pants out of a drawer filled with Simon's sweaters. She shimmies into them and then starts digging for a shirt that isn't too wrinkled.

"For what?" he asks.

"Lunch with my mother," she says and he raises an eyebrow. "I was supposed to meet her at my house. She's already there. I'm not."

"Nope," Simon says, looking at the clock. "We slept late."

"I know," she groans, deciding that a blue short-sleeved button down blouse will have to do. She can always change at home if she really needs to. Shoes, where are her shoes?

"I wish you didn't have to go," he says. "Really destroys my plans of staying in bed with you all day."

"Sorry," she says. "I mean, you could come if you wanted."

"No," he says quickly. "No, I've met your Mum. She's scary." Paula pauses long enough to laugh.

"What?" she asks.

"She's all intense and I don't think she likes me very much," Simon says.

"That was the first season," Paula says, deciding on a pair of black peep-toe heels and sliding them on. "Everyone hated you."

"Lovely," he says. "Are you coming back tonight?"

"I don't know," she says, disappearing into the bathroom to try to tame her hair. "Probably?"

"Probably?" he repeats. "What does that mean?"

"Well," she says, digging through a drawer noisily, looking for a hair elastic. "I guess we should probably talk about what happened."

"Ah yes," Simon says ruefully. "How you women do love to chat about it afterward."

She appears from the bathroom, her hair in her hands halfway to a ponytail.

"Chat about it?" she says. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you all can never just enjoy an experience. You have to analyze it into the dirt," he says.

"That isn't fair," she says, wrapping the hair band around her ponytail and letting her arms drop. "What happened was a big deal."

He rolls his eyes.

"I knew this was going to change things," she says disappearing into the bathroom.

"It hasn't changed anything!" he says, getting out of bed and pulling his pajama pants on. In the bathroom, Paula stands over the sink with her toothbrush in her mouth, looking pissed. "What has changed? We always fight." She spits into the sink and rinses her mouth before answering.

"But we haven't been fighting," she says. "Not really."

"You're not exactly innocent here," he says. "You were a willing participant if I recall."

"Me?" she says, her voice going a little shrill. "You were the one who promised not to rush and then had your hands in my pants the second we got into bed!"

"You were wearing a nightgown!" he says, and she rolls her eyes.

"Whatever, Simon," she says, and slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'll call you later."

"Wait, wait, wait," he says, and catches up with her at the top of the stairs. "Don't leave angry."

"I'm not," she says. "I'm leaving upset."

"Look, do you regret what we did?" he asks, his hands on her shoulders.

"No," she says.

"Nor do I," he says. "Why are we fighting?" She doesn't have an answer.

"I'm really late," she says. He leans down, kisses her and she kisses him, heat flaring up her back.

"Call me later," he says.

"I will," she promises and then leaves before she decides to abandon her mother and go back to bed forever.

Her mother is in her living room when she finally gets home, closer to half an hour than twenty minutes.

"Sorry," she says, when her mother stands to hug her. "I'm so sorry."

"You're here now," Lorraine says hugging her. Paula hears her mother sniff. "Why do you smell like Old Spice?"

Because Simon uses Old Spice body wash, but Paula can't say that.

"Just something I'm trying out," Paula says with a smile. Her mother looks unconvinced. "Where do you want to eat?"

"You want to go out like that?" her mother says, waving her hand around Paula to illustrate that everything is not on par. Paula sighs. No amount of fame will ever make her good enough for her mother.

"I have plenty of food here," she says, her false smile big. "I'll make a salad." Paula lets the dogs in first. "Say hi to grandma!" she says while the dogs swarm their feet. She's been neglecting them lately and she vows to take them with her if and when she goes back to Simon's. In the kitchen she pulls out ingredients for the salad while her mother takes a seat.

"So what have you been up to?" Paula asks.

"I took Austin and Alex to lunch last weekend," her mother says.

"I got them tickets to the show for April," Paula said. Her nephews were sort of over the whole American Idol phenomenon but did like to bring girls every now and then to impress them. Paula didn't get to see them as much as she used to, so when they wanted tickets, she got them.

They lapsed into silence. It wasn't as if Paula didn't get along with her mom or that her mom didn't love her, but Paula was a daddy's girl and she just couldn't talk with her mom in the same way.

"Okay," her mother says. "Let's talk about the elephant in the room."

Paula is rinsing lettuce at the sink and pauses, the cold water numbing her hands.

"What do you mean?"

"You're seeing someone," her mother says.

"I'm..." she says and then changes tactics. "Why do you think that?"

"You came from somewhere," her mother says.

"Yes," Paula says. "I came from a breakfast meeting with Simon." Maybe a partial lie is better than a full one. Paula doesn't like to lie at all, but her mother always proves the exception to that rule.

"The man from your show?" she asks, knowing full well who Simon is.

"Yes," Paula says, pulling a knife out of her butcher's block and slicing a tomato carefully. The tomato is bright against the white cutting board and she picks out the seeds with the tip of the knife before dropping the tomato into the salad bowl on top of the lettuce.

"So early?" her mother prods.

"It was breakfast," Paula says, an edge of exasperation creeping into her voice.

"Have you been eating?" her mother asks, moving the subject, thankfully, away from Simon and toward, less thankfully, the depressing issue of Paula's eating disorder. Paula would rather spend an afternoon fielding questions about her imperfections than talking about Simon with her mother.

An hour after her mother leaves, her sister calls her.

"Hi Wendy," Paula answers.

"Are you dating someone?" Wendy asks, abruptly. She knows with Paula it's best just to get right to the point.

"What?" Paula asks.

"I just got off the phone with mom. She thinks you're seeing Simon Cowell but I told her she was probably confused," Wendy says.

"Yeah," Paula says. "That's crazy."

Wendy is quiet for a second.

"So are you?" she prods.

"What? No."

"Paula?" Wendy says. "You aren't dating that man, are you?"

"What? No! What? No, that's just... No," Paula says, blowing air through her lips like it's the most preposterous thing she's ever heard of in her life.

"Good Lord," Wendy says. "Are you sleeping with Simon Cowell?"

Paula has always had a difficult time lying to Wendy. Wendy can always read her like a book, always ratted her out to their mother when Paula had done something wrong and she was going to do it again now.

"One time!" Paula says, relieved to actually admit it to someone. She thought about their late night shower. "Maybe twice."

"Paula Julie Abdul!" Wendy says, shrilly. She's heard that tone before with the boys and it means trouble.

"I don't really want to talk about it right now," Paula says.

"That's too damn bad," says her sister.

"Oh, I'm getting another call," Paula says.

"No you aren't!"

"I have to take it," Paula says.

"No you don't!"

"Bye Wendy!" she says and hangs up, putting her face in her hands. She needs to get up and change her clothes. She has a meeting with her staff at 4:00 and they'll all start to arrive long before that. She can't think about her mother or her nosy sister. She can't think about Simon because every time she does, her face turns pink in the cheeks.

Really, she just needs to get through this day. Then she'll call Simon and he'll come over and they'll lie down in her bed, the sheets pulled up over their head. In the bed will be safe, dark, and warm.

At least, she hopes so.


	9. Chapter 9

Paula coaxes Simon to her house by 10:00 pm. He arrives looking tired and short tempered but when she opens the door, he apologizes.

"I was sort of a jerk earlier," he says. "I'll talk about whatever you want."

She steps aside to let him in and smiles smugly.

"You were," she says.

"Forgive me?" he says. She nods and closes the door behind him.

"Randy and I are leaving for New York this weekend," she reminds him. "We don't have time to fight anyhow."

"For your single?" he asks.

"Today show, The View, TRL, and Letterman," she says.

"That's the longest day ever," he says, kicking off his shoes. She nods. It will be.

"Will you miss me?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. "But it's good timing because we're working to launch Leona in the states anyway so I'll be busy."

"Life as usual," she murmurs. Paula can't begrudge either of them their busy schedules. It has always been this way. She has been busy since she was seventeen and she doesn't see an end on any horizon she gazes into. Some people, she knows, thrive off of pressure and she's one of them. Too many days off in a row and she goes crazy, pacing her house like an animal in a cage. And while there is some allure, some primal draw, to the idea of she and Simon alone in a place for days on end, in reality it would never work.

She is almost sure, that it would never work out that way.

"We've had a small reprieve, haven't we?" he asks, picking up one of the dogs to hold in his arms, to stroke gently while they speak.

"I don't sleep as well without you," Paula says. She blurts it really, a confession that has come out of nowhere. Sometimes the truth tumbles out without warning. Simon looks smug instead of pleased but sometimes it's hard to tell the difference on his face. "God," she says. "I feel like a spaz."

"Don't," he says, and he kisses her, squashing the dog between them. "Let's open a bottle of wine and sit down."

She lets him pick the wine, dig through the drawer for a corkscrew and rinse the dust out of the bottom of her wineglasses before pouring the liquid in. These are the wineglasses she got with Brad. She thinks her first set, the one's she liked best (narrow, delicate stems) went with Emilio in the divorce. These are sturdy and practical; they don't shatter when knocked over.

Her glass is a formality at best because they both know she isn't going to drink it, not with him or alone or with anybody. She puts enough in her mouth to get the taste but not enough to swallow and she doesn't touch it again. They sit at her dining room table, and the glass is clean and wide between them. He reaches out his hand and she takes it and when they are touching things are better.

"When we are on camera," he says, starting out right away. "Things should be exactly the same."

"Okay," she says, waiting for clarification.

"Idol will be the same, press will be the same, don't you think that's best?" he asks. She cocks her head to one side, considering.

"Give me an example," she demands.

"All right," he says. "Someone asks me a question, someone says, And what do you think of Paula?"

"What do you answer?" she asks.

"I say, Paula is annoying, but I adore her," Simon says. "I don't gush and gush."

"But do you WANT to gush?" she prods.

"Of course," he says and she smiles. "And when someone asks about me?"

"I talk about how annoying and distracting and awful you are?" she says, sweetly.

"You'll continue to lie," he says. "Paula, some things don't belong to the public."

"Not yet," she says. He doesn't agree or disagree.

In bed later, after the sex and the hot kisses and the tousled sheets, she sleeps with her cheek against his chest. He lies awake and wraps her hair around his fingers again and again, a dark contrast against his pale skin. All things considered, she's a heavy sleeper once she actually goes under. Perhaps she's just used to him poking and prodding her; she's built up a tolerance against him. Her face is soft in sleep, relaxed and she's very pretty. He's always thought so and has never said otherwise. She's his type, that olive skin and those high cheekbones. She has a beautiful mouth and he kisses her softly, but not enough to cause her to stir. He wonders, briefly, why she ever gave into a man like him. She's proven that she can get younger more attractive men and yet here she is, naked and asleep in his arms.

He kisses her again.

"Baby," she mutters, shifting against him. "Sleep."

It's her polite way of asking him to leave her alone, to let her sleep so he closes his eyes.

In the morning he wakes up alone. She isn't in the bathroom, the den, downstairs in the kitchen or anywhere. If he were at home, he might be worried that she left but it's her house, so he knows she's just somewhere out of sight and sound. He's standing in the kitchen when she opens the back door and comes in with all the dogs. He can see that he startles her – she jumps when she sees him.

"It's early," she says. It isn't an admonishment; she looks happy to see him awake.

"I wanted to know where you were," he says.

"I'll fix something to eat," she says. He'll have to go soon, she means. Her staff will come and begin the circus of packing her for New York. He has plenty to do – Oprah in a little over a week and Leona flies in a just a few days to start the press.

Simon works on coffee while Paula cracks eggs one handed into a hot frying pan. He grinds the beans and pours a pot full of water into the back of the coffee maker. They both like their coffee strong – he used to prefer tea but so much time in L.A. has changed him, a little.

When breakfast is over, the dishes cleaned, and the showers had, it's time for him to go. He won't see her for several days now, not until Idol on Tuesday and they both know this.

"I'll call you," he says. "Don't have too much fun with Randy."

"We're going to badmouth you the whole time," she says, seriously.

"Are you going to tell him that you've finally given into me?" Simon asks. She scoffs.

"No," she says. "Plus, you gave in to me, all right? Get it straight."

"Whatever, darling," he says. They stop joking and he hugs her, holds her tight. "See you in a bit, then." He kisses her and lets himself out. She stands in her pink robe, alone in her empty, echoing foyer.

But she isn't given much time to mope because it's time to pack and get ready and fly out. Randy has hired a private jet on behalf on his brand spanking new record label but she knows that he's paying for it out of pocket. It's just like flying to each audition city except that Simon isn't there. She and Randy get along fine, actually. She really likes Randy and he is like a brother to her. They sit next to one another on the plane and occasionally he pats her hand.

"What's going on with you?" he asks after a couple hours of silence. He knows that sitting next to Paula usually means a steady stream of chatter but she's been unusually quiet, her mind processing the last few days.

"I'm just nervous," she says, which is partly true. She wants to do well on the talk show circuit and she's glad Randy will be with her while she does it. It's taken a long time to recover from the Hey Paula fiasco. She's used to hosts asking her what's in her cup, but it was hard to explain away the blow to her image the reality show gave her. Simon had told her not to do it, but she'd been so humiliated that even he hadn't gloated.

"What's to be nervous about?" Randy asks. "You have the dawg with you!"

She smiles, pats his forearm and smiles, used to Randy's way of speaking. When Paula doesn't respond, Randy changes the subject.

"So, it's crazy about Terri and Simon right? I didn't even know they were really having problems," he says. Her first reaction is that Randy knows something, but when she looks at him, his face is open and honest.

"I've known about their problems," Paula says, trying not to sound guilty. "They were... never an ideal match."

"I thought anyone who put up with Simon was ideal," Randy jokes but Paula doesn't laugh. "Well, he doesn't seem too bummed."

"No, he's fine," Paula says. Randy gives her a raised eyebrow.

"It will make the X-Factor uncomfortable," Randy muses.

"Why?"

"Sharon and Terri were really close," Randy says. "Sharon will probably spend the season making his life miserable."

Paula, honestly, had not thought much about Simon going back to the U.K. to film his other show and the idea makes a cold chill go through her. Simon will stay until May, at least, perhaps through the start of the summer but he'll need to leave and when he does it will be for several months.

"He can stand up for himself," Paula says absently. She doesn't feel like defending Simon because she really doesn't feel like defending herself.

"I'm surprised he doesn't already have some twenty-year-old blonde on his arm," Randy says.

"Eventually it gets to the point where you just want someone your own age," Paula says. She's dated enough younger men to know that this is true.

"What, like you, P?" Randy jokes. She looks at him sharply. "Like you've never thought about it."

"It wouldn't last, probably," she says, finally. Randy has a serious expression again.

"It could," Randy says. "If anyone could tame the beast, it'd be you."

"You think?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Well anyway," Paula says. "It's Simon. So who knows?"

When they land, her phone starts twittering the moment she steps into the terminal. Her staff is already in New York with most of her luggage. She sent them ahead to prepare and check into the hotel. She listens to the messages as they head for the limo. The last one is from Simon and she listens to it with a huge grin on her face.

"Paula," he draws. "This is Simey. Call me when you land, darling. I miss you."

"Good news?" Randy asks, watching her.

"No," she says. "Just Simon. You know, being Simon." Randy looks at his phone dramatically.

"I don't have a voicemail from Simon," Randy says. She rolls her eyes and speed dials Simon.

"Hello," he answers.

"Hey," she says. "It's me. I got your message. We're in the limo."

"How was your flight?" Simon asks.

"Okay," she says. "It was a nice plane."

"Better than mine?" he asks.

"Well, you're usually on your plane so..." She lets her voice trail off. To Randy it sounds like an insult, but Simon knows better.

"I'll talk to you later," he says, and hangs up.

"Chatty," Randy accuses. But he does so kindly.

They fly through the night in order to make it back to L.A. in time for Idol. Paula is exhausted when she climbs onto the private plane and almost weeps with relief when she sees the beds turned down.

This is how they fly during auditions, scooting from one city to another. When it's the three of them, they all start out in their own beds, all in a row like cots in a summer camp cabin. Paula has trouble sleeping in unfamiliar beds in unfamiliar places and Simon eventually would slide from his bed over to hers, tired of listening to her toss and turn. He would lie close to her in the narrow bed – not so close that they were tangled (how they slept now) but close enough for her to know she wasn't alone and to relax.

In her bed now, the sheets too crisp and cold, she rolls over again and again.

"If you think I'm coming over there, you have another thing coming," Randy says into the darkness.

"I'm fine," Paula says. She hasn't slept well this whole trip, truth be told. She's become accustomed to Simon in the bed with her, his strong arms, the smell of his aftershave, the steady sound of his breathing. It's a long night on the plane. Every bump wakes her from her shallow sleep and Randy's snoring is really something to behold.

When they land in L.A. she has a few hours to go home and sleep before she has to report for duty to the American Idol studios. It's enough time to shower and maybe to sleep, but not sleep well. She washes the airplane and travel grime off her and sets her alarm. She falls into bed.

Her housekeeper has changed her sheets and made up the bed in her absence and she can no longer detect a trace of Simon in her bed. But she can find him if she knows where to look – a man's razor in her bathroom drawer, balled up tube socks in the bureau, and a silver Rolex wrapped around a bottle of perfume, much too large for her dainty wrist. She could call him now, listen to his sleepy voice if she wanted but she doesn't. She sleeps for three hours instead, fitfully.

Her alarm sounds far too soon. She takes Advil before anything else. She had braided her hair into two long braids like a child so she could sleep with it wet and now doesn't bother to take them out. She'll let Daniel deal with the mess at the studio. She puts on a velour jumpsuit and running shoes. She finds her big sunglasses and drives to the lot, going through the back entrance and parking by the trailers. Simon's probably in his, but she feels exhausted, wrung out, like the day after a particularly fierce hangover, when the nausea is gone but everything is still just a tad too bright. And, of course, they'd decided to act like nothing was different and on a normal Idol day, she doesn't see Simon until they're sliding into their seats at the judge's table.

Daniel looks at her and groans.

"What the hell is this?" he says, waving his hands all around her.

"I'm tired," she mutters. "Bite me."

"Ooh," Daniel says, pushing her into the seat. "Feisty. Up too late with your man?" he asks, pushing her into the director's chair that sits in front of her lighted vanity.

It's easier for Daniel to do her up in the make-up room but sometimes, on days like this, it isn't always better. Today she wants to hide out in her dressing room where there are fewer outlets and less space. Simon has a dressing room, of course, down the hall and across the way from hers but in the last season, he's acquired a trailer and so the room is more of a storage space for him. Paula wishes, petulantly for a moment, that she'd demanded a trailer as well because she probably would have gotten it.

"My man?" Paula says, suddenly realizing what Daniel had implied.

"Your man," Daniel says. "Your Brit. Your Mr. Nasty, your bad hair, bad clothes, bad attitude man."

Paula stares at him in the mirror, her eyes wide at his gall.

"Come on," he says, digging in his bag for her hairbrush. If he ever wants to clone Paula, he has enough of her DNA in that make-up bag to make more than one. "You're glowing. You have been for days."

"Just shut up," Paula says, leaning her head back and closing her eyes against the bright lights that line the mirror. "I hate you sometimes."

"Ouch," Daniel says. "Somebody is going to have mom hair tonight."

She's the last one to the judge's table, rushing toward her place in too high heels while the front row and mosh pit of teenaged girls shriek at her.

"Paula, we love you!" A couple girls scream in unison and she smiles big and waves at them. Simon, in his chair, smirks at her. She sits down and she doesn't even have time to say a word to Simon before the lights go down and Ryan starts announcing the show into the camera. Under the table, Simon takes her hand, lacing their fingers. When the camera pans to them, he lets go.

It's a long show, but it goes faster when she pays attention to the kids in front of her and doesn't dwell on Simon. She tries not to think about how she can smell his cologne, about the arm draped across her chair, or how the tip of her shoe touches the back of his calf when she twists her ankle just so.

Because, the truth of the matter is, as much this show started out to be a competition to find the best singer in America, for many fans, it's now a show about the judges. The fans are eagle-eyed and anytime Simon so much as looks at her for a beat too long, the Internet is abuzz with rumors of their love affair. Which is just ridiculous.

And now, also, true.

It nags at her, Simon's need to keep whatever it is that they have hidden, and it nags at her that she agrees. She wants to tell the world but more than that, she wants her privacy to remain intact. In the perfect world she creates in her head and speaks about to no one, she would not have the driving need for perfection and success that has rooted itself deep into her heart. In this world, she doesn't need a 5,000 square foot house with a room just for her shoes and sunglasses. She doesn't need a new car every two years; she doesn't need a camera lens in her face to make her feel relevant.

In this world, though, she still needs Simon. In this world, he is there. They do things like go grocery shopping together, eat sandwiches on a blanket over green grass, or visit her sister on rainy weekends. In this world, she isn't on her phone all the time, in this world, she irons his shirts for him while he shaves over the sink, in this world, it is just the two of them – no assistants or stylists or handlers in sight. They handle each other.

"Darling," Simon says, tugging on her forearm. The show is over and the band is playing them off the set. She knows the credits will be rolling now and usually she stands and dances and watches the mayhem around. He looks at her with a concerned expression and she stands next to him and Randy who is clapping along with the beat. "Are you all right?"

"Just zoned out for a second," she says. He lets go of her arm but she moves into him, presses her side against his and lifts his arm over her shoulder. A little treat for the audience, maybe, because the cameras probably aren't even on them anymore. He rests his chin on the top of her head, the crown of her, the part of her that first saw the world.

"Do you want to come over?" he says.

"We have hours to go," she reminds him. Press, parties, and waiting for the adrenaline that is coursing through the building to fade.

"I know," he says. "Say yes."

"Yes," she says.

He grins, smug maybe, or just pleased. He lets her go – they're off the air and walks away.

She's so tired by the time the carnival is over that she is wary about driving herself home, let alone to Simon's which is an extra ten minutes thanks to freeway construction. She could ask Daniel to drive her, but that would be admitting to him that he was right about her and Simon all along. She could ask Pam or Kylie, but it would be giving her assistants power they didn't deserve and knowledge they weren't responsible enough to have.

She finds her phone, wedged at the bottom of her purse and lays down across the couch in her dressing room. The studio is beginning to clear out – American Idol Extra has already finished filming and now most of the people around are crew. Randy and Simon have both been gone for at least twenty minutes.

"Where are you?" Simon asks.

"I'm still at CBS," she admits. "I just got done with, um, Access Hollywood."

"You haven't left yet?" he says, sighing. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yes," she says, hesitantly. "Well..."

"Lord," he says. "You want me to come get you, don't you?"

"Is it scary that you can read my mind?" she asks, yawning.

"Well it's not exactly Dostoevsky, is it?" he says.

"Hey," she protests, half-heartedly.

"I'm coming," he says, and hangs up. She closes her eyes, just for a moment. The dressing room is dark. Daniel has cleaned up his mess on the vanity and the bright light bulbs are off. The room is lit only by a lamp in the corner with a low-watt bulb and a pink scarf over the lampshade to make everything rose-hued. It seems like Simon arrives instantly, even though she knows she must have fallen asleep.

His hand touches her forehead briefly, like her father used to do when he checked his daughter for fever. He uses the back of his fingers, a brief but loving touch. It wakes Paula.

"Hi," she says, sleepily.

"Let's go," he says, offering two hands to help her to her feet. "Where are your keys?"

"My keys?" she asks. "Why do you want my keys?"

"I took a cab over," he says. "So you could have your own car in the morning."

It's totally sweet and totally out of character of him and they both know it. She stares at him, her shock evident on her face. He smiles.

"Can't believe it, eh?" he says. "You love me, don't you?"

"I do," she says. "A little bit I do right now."

She lets him drag her out of the room, leaning her weight against him. He opens her car door for her, and makes a big show of making sure her feet are inside and leaning over her to buckle her seat belt for her.

"I'm not a child," she says, slapping his hand away.

"No, then you'd be in the back seat," he says. He closes the door before she can complain again and she wasn't going to anyway because he's doing her this grand (grand for Simon, anyway) favor. When he tries to get into the driver's seat he doesn't fit. She giggles as he huffs and puffs trying to find the bar to let the seat back in the dark and then rolls his eyes as it slowly, automatically moves back, back. He gets in finally and she's still laughing.

"I missed you!" she says, sounding surprised.

"I know," he says.

"I'm tired, Simon," she says, as he starts the car. The rumbling of a car engine always puts her to sleep.

"Close your eyes," he says. She dozes for the ride, his hand warm on her leg. It takes her a bit to notice, but the closer they get to his house, the higher his hand gets on her leg. She shifts a little in her seat, as if she is trying to get comfortable but really she's giving him more access and they both know this and say nothing. She wishes she'd worn a dress.

The car slows down and she can sense the red brake lights of the traffic in front of her through her closed eyelids. Simon moves his hand up and up and then he's there, rubbing her through her pants and her hips shift of their own accord. She gasps at the contact but doesn't open her eyes. If she did, all she'd see would be him staring ahead, his left hand on the bottom of the steering wheel. From the stereo, the Beatles play softly, almost too softly to hear.

_Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?_

He applies enough pressure to make her squirm but not enough to achieve the goal she's after. And then his hand is gone.

"Simon," she begs, her eyes snapping open. He's pulling off the freeway. The stoplight at the end of the off ramp is red, and he leans over. She meets his lips, the first kiss they've shared in days. His tongue forces it's way into her mouth and she accepts it readily, loving the feeling of it against her teeth, her tongue.

The car behind him starts honking and he takes his kiss away.

"Drive faster," she says, her fingers wrapping around the door handle, her knuckles white.

His foot hits the gas a little harder.


	10. Chapter 10

Somehow, like magic, Paula gets a day off. An entire day in which she has no meetings, no obligations, no duties to fulfill. She calls it the perfect storm – every eight months or so, she catches a scheduling break. It's not purely accident – Pam is always aware of these things. She watches Paula carefully, it's her job, and notices when Paula gets run down, gets shaky, when she starts to lose the joy in what she does.

Pam tells her the night before.

"What's on the table for tomorrow?" Paula asks, her head held up by the ball of her hand, her elbow slowly slipping down the glass of her dining room table. The table is covered by papers, folders, a fax machine, and three different cell phones. One buzzes quietly, the sound more from the phone moving against the glass than any noise from the actual device. Neither moves to get it; it's the noise of an alarm, a reminder for something that Paula doesn't care about anymore.

"Nothing," Pam says, carefully. She sits on the other side of the corner from Paula. She's the last one at the residence, the last one out and the first one in usually.

"Nothing?" Paula asks, perking up.

"Clear day," Pam says. "You might get a few phone calls, but only if you choose to answer them."

"For real?" Paula asks.

"Yes ma'am," Pam says, her smile small. The thing is, Pam and Paula are about the same age; Pam is one year and four months older than Paula and has worked for Paula going on three years now. Pam likes to keep things professional, though. She doesn't gossip with Paula like Kylie does, she doesn't giggle with Paula like Daniel does. Sometimes Paula wishes she could be closer with Pam, understand what makes her tick, but sometimes she appreciates this distance.

"Okay," Paula says. "Go home."

She waits until Pam gathers her things and navigates her car through the gate – she waits until the rear bumper of Pam's car has cleared the gate, before she relaxes.

An entire day off. She'll sleep past 8:00 am and she'll fix a real breakfast and she'll go swimming in her pool (she won't, it's cold, but she could if she wanted to) and she'll bask in aloneness for hours and hours.

She'll wait as long as she can before she calls Simon to see what he's doing, to see if he wants to spend time with her on this most beloved day. If it were earlier in her life and career, she'd open a bottle of Chardonnay and drink a glass before bed, but she doesn't do that anymore, not ever. Instead, she runs a bath in her bathtub and lights a candle and thinks about putting on music but decides on silence instead, since she doesn't get to have it all that often.

Simon calls after she washes her hair but before she gets out of the tub. She should have left her phone in the other room but it's a hard habit to break, taking it wherever she goes. She wipes her hand on the towel hanging above her head and answers the phone, putting it onto speaker.

"Hello," she says.

"It's me," he says.

"Hi me."

"Where are you? You sound far away," he says.

"You're on speakerphone," she says. "And I'm in the bathroom."

"Ew," he says. "Sometimes you really don't have any boundaries."

"In the tub, Cowell, I'm in the tub."

"Oh, well," he drawls. "Now that is a whole other story."

"You like?" she asks, sounding coy on purpose, because she knows how to rev him up.

"I was going to invite you over, but if you promise to stay right where you are, I'll come to you," he says.

"Oh."

"Oh?" he parrots. "That lacked enthusiasm."

"I was thinking of maybe sleeping here," she says. "You know, a night to myself." He's silent for longer than she feels comfortable with – she thinks he might be mad.

"All right," he says.

"I'm just..."

"I understand," he says.

"Because..."

"You don't have to explain, darling, I know what you mean," he says.

"You always know what I mean," she says softly. "Will you have a good night?"

"I will," he promises. "Goodnight, Paula Abdul."

"Goodnight, Simon," she says.

She puts in a movie to fall asleep too, the silence suddenly not appealing as it once had been.

In the morning, she gets out of bed by 7:30, her internal clock not allowing the extra sleep she thinks she deserves. She lies in bed for a while, but it's no use. The dogs sleep in without her, their small bodies close together on a pile of pillows. She wanders downstairs and fries a few eggs. She takes a shower and blows her hair out straight. She changes her clothes twice and listens to Ryan on the radio.

At 8:53 am she gives in and calls Simon.

"Bloody hell, woman," is his polite answer to her call.

"Good morning," she says, cheerfully. "Are you awake?"

"What could you possibly want from me this early?" he mumbles.

"I'm bored," she admits.

"And cruelty to me is your plan for entertainment?" he asks.

"You're funny in the morning," she says. "It's cute."

"Well," he says, always one for having his ego stroked. "I'm cute, so it stands to reason."

"What are you doing today?" she asks.

"Working from home," he says.

"Want some company?" she asks.

"From you?"

"From me," she says.

"If you came at any point in the day, I wouldn't turn you away," he says. "I'm going back to sleep now." He hangs up but she doesn't care because now she gets to spend her day off alone with Simon.

She makes herself wait two hours before she goes over to his house. Enough time for him to shower, to eat and drink coffee or tea and shake off his morning grogginess. She's prepared to be with him without him paying any attention to her. He has to work and he'll probably be on the phone so she brings her computer, a book, and her ipod. Maybe if it stays sunny and warm, she'll sit outside for a while. She'll open his office window before she goes, so she can hear his voice float down to her while he works.

When she gets to his house, she lets herself in and heads up the stairs. She doesn't hear anything.

"Simon?" she calls, approaching his office door. "Babe?"

She opens the office door and sees a woman sitting on the edge of the desk, her dark, curly hair in her face as she reads some papers. For a moment, she's is certain, absolutely certain that she's looking at Terri and she gasps.

The woman looks up and looks at her curiously. It isn't Terri and Paula lets the oxygen out of her lungs.

"Hello?" she says.

"Hi," Paula says, trying to force herself to relax. "I'm sorry, I was looking for Simon."

"He stepped out," she says. "I'm sorry but you're Paula Abdul."

"I know," says Paula. "You're Leona Lewis."

"I know," Leona says, with a smile.

"Well, I'm glad we got that all cleared up," Paula says. "I didn't know you were in town."

"I just got in," she says. "I came over to finalize my contract with Simon before we do the Oprah Winfrey show."

"That's this week," Paula says.

"It's tomorrow," Leona says. "We fly out tomorrow."

Paula isn't very good at keeping up with her own schedule let alone Simon's. If she'd known that he was going out of town with his beautiful new pop star, she would have spent the night with him after all. She isn't jealous – she's not jealous of this new girl, of her beautiful eyes or her long, dark legs. But she wants Simon to herself; she doesn't want to share.

"Are you nervous?" Paula asks, crossing her arms.

"About taping the show?" Leona asks.

"About America," she corrects.

"My success has been overwhelming," she says, her voice beautiful and lilting. "Everything from here on out is just icing."

"That's a good attitude," Paula says. "But America will love you. I've heard your album, it's amazing."

"Thank you," she says, shyly.

Downstairs, a door slams and there are heavy footsteps, rapid on the stairs. Simon comes in and stops short.

"Paula," he says. "I didn't notice your car."

"I parked off to the side," she says. "Out of the sun."

"I see you've met Leona," he says, with a grin.

"I startled her," Paula says.

"No," Leona pipes in. "We were just getting to know one another."

"You're flying to Chicago tomorrow?" Paula asks.

"Early," Simon says, walking past her. "Are you nervous?" he directs this to Leona.

"I almost wish people would stop asking me that," she says. A phone starts to ring and Leona blushes, digging for it in her handbag. "Excuse me, it's my mum," she says and steps out of the office.

"Nice, right?" Simon says when she's gone. "She's so nice."

"You could have told me she was here," Paula reprimands. "I thought she was..."

"What?"

"Nothing," Paula says, biting her lip. "I was just surprised."

"I know you'll fancy her, everyone does," Simon says. "Will you join us for lunch?"

"Am I in the way if I stay?" Paula asks.

"No," he says. "She is only here until one and then she has to go do something or other." He waves his hand in the air, indicating that he doesn't know or care what it is. "She wanted to see the house and I had some documents for her to sign, so here we are."

"You don't have to explain," Paula says, happy that he did anyhow.

"What are you doing today?" he asks, looking up from the desk.

"Nothing," she says.

"What?"

"I got nothing," she says shrugging. His face splits into a grin.

"Well, we'll get rid of the tramp and shag all afternoon then, what do you say?" he quips.

"Shut up," she says, glancing at the door. "She'll hear you."

"A travesty," he says sarcastically. "I hate when people know that I get to sleep with a beautiful woman."

"Don't be a shit, Simon," Paula snaps. Leone comes back into the office and Paula smiles.

"Am I interrupting?" she asks which makes it clear to Paula that she heard at least some of their conversation.

"Not at all," Paula says.

"We were just discussing lunch," Simon says. "I thought we might eat in. You must be tired and my housekeeper will make us something."

"Sounds lovely," Leona says.

"What about you, princess?" Simon asks, teasingly.

"Whatever," Paula says. She pretends to be indifferent but really eating in and then spending the day in bed doesn't sound half bad, his crude language aside. Usually, by the time she sees Simon, they're both tired and in the mood to cut through the foreplay and get to the chase. The other night was a good example of this – she'd been exhausted from the press in New York and he'd come to pick her up from the studio. Their foreplay had been five minutes of naughty touching in the car and then they'd had frenzied sex on her sofa and half an hour later were both asleep in bed. It had been good (with Simon was always good) but it'd all been over so fast.

They eat lunch out by the pool. It's not exactly warm, but it's nice enough in the sunshine. Paula puts a packet of sweetener in her iced tea and sits quietly as Simon and Leona talk shop. It's easy to watch them from behind her large sunglasses while she picks away at the vegetarian sandwich Simon's help had made for her. It's on a huge roll and she doesn't need all that bread, so the whole meal is sort of a mess on her plate.

Leona is talking about her plans for the summer when Simon lowers his sunglasses enough to peer at Paula over the rims.

"Are you eating any of that, sweetheart, or are you just redecorating your plate?"

"I'm eating," she mutters, stabbing a ring of red onion with her fork and popping it into her mouth.

"I'm watching you, PJ, and I want at least half of that gone," he says.

"Don't call me that, Cowell, and you're not my mother," she says.

"She's tiny, right?" Simon asks Leona who looks as if she doesn't actually want to get involved. "This is why."

"You can't pressure women about food," Leona says, finally. "And for the record, I think you're lovely."

"Yeah, I pretty much want to adopt you," Paula says, grinning at Leona.

"She's mine," Simon says. "Back off."

"You'd better keep her away from Ryan," Paula says. "He'll eat her alive."

"Pfft," Simon scoffs. "The worst thing he'd do is kidnap her to go shoe shopping with him."

"I can hear you, you know," Leona says.

"Sorry," Paula says. "We don't mean to fight. It's just how we communicate."

"May I ask something?" Leona says, carefully.

"Sure," Simon says, tossing his napkin onto his plate.

"Are you?" Leona looks back and forth between them with her eyebrows raised. "I mean, it's just that you seem so close."

"We're friends," Paula says, glancing at Simon questioningly.

"Best friends," Simon corrects.

"I see," says Leona uncertainly.

"And if anyone asks you, that's what you say," says Paula. "Because in this country, they will ask you about us."

"The news could be about a new single, about my new car, about Idol Gives Back, about anything really, and the third question is always about Paula and me," Simon says. "A bit boring, really."

"A nuisance," Paula chimes in, not quite able to hide her smile.

Leona drinks her tea and says nothing.

Paula waits at the house while Simon drops Leona back off at her hotel. She sets up her computer at the table on the patio and patches into Simon's network so she can return a few e-mails. She figures it's not quite work if she does it by a swimming pool. It doesn't take Simon long to return.

"I hope you're only playing solitaire. It is your day off, after all," he says, standing in the doorway.

She closes the screen of the laptop and shrugs at him.

"Do you have a better idea of how I ought to spend my time?" she asks.

"In fact I do," he says. "Follow me."

She tucks the computer under her arm and leaves it on the first flat surface she sees when she gets inside. He heads up the stairs and she follows him. She expects him to turn right into the bedroom but instead he goes farther down the hall into the part of the house she doesn't often go in to. Past the bedroom, past the guestroom and bathroom with the large tub, past his office.

"What's back here?" she asks.

"The actual master bedroom," he says.

"You mean there is a bedroom bigger than yours?" she asks.

"It's the game room," he says. "You've never been in the game room?"

"No," she says. He pushes open the double doors to reveal a large room filled with sunlight. All the windows are uncovered and the morning sun pours in. In the center of the room is a pool table with a low bar light hanging over the middle of the table. In one corner is a pinball machine that is Pop Idol themed. She rolls her eyes. On the far wall, between the windows, is a dartboard, and there is also a blackjack table set up next to the mini bar. "Wow," she says, suitably impressed.

"Sometimes we do our boys night here," he says, talking about his Idol co-stars.

"Ah yes," she says. "The ones to which I am not ever invited."

"We couldn't talk about your cleavage if you were here," he says.

"You talk about me?" she says, curiously. "At your boy's nights?"

"Sometimes," he says. "We haven't had one in a while. Someone has been distracting me."

"Hmm," she says, walkng around the room, inspecting things closely. The cartoonish pictures of Simon on the pinball machine, the view of the neighbors house from the windows, the half empty bottles of Kettle One, Amaretto, and Jack Daniels that litter behind the bar. There is half a lime, dry and curled into itself, that has been forgotten and left for dead and she wrinkles her nose at the fruit and keeps walking. She drags her hand over the felt cover of the card table and studies a print of London at night that hangs on the wall. She stops in front of the large TV that has a few movies laying around as well as what looks like a PlayStation 3 and a Wii.

"Does it pass your inspection?" he asks.

"I suppose," she says, turning to face him. "What did you want to do in here?"

"Make out with you on the pool table," he says, seriously. She laughs but when he doesn't join her, her laughter tapers off.

"Seriously?" she asks.

"Quite serious," he says. "I've often fantasized of making love to you on every flat surface in this house, and I thought, why not start here?"

"Wait," she says. "Making out or making love?"

"Bodily juices aren't good for the table," he says. "So just making out."

She wrinkles her noise at the notion of juices but edges closer to him. He pats the edge of the table, indicating for her to hop up.

"This makes me feel like a silly teenager," she says, easily hoisting herself up onto the table. Her feet swing high above the ground.

"Isn't that part of the fun?" he asks, nudging her knees apart so there is enough room for him to stand between them.

"I thought you were the one who wanted to start acting your age in your relationships," she retorts.

"Oh, you're right," he says, smacking his forehead with his open hand. "That's why I got myself an old girlfriend." She gasps and when he tries to swoop in quickly and kiss her, she turns her head so he gets cheek.

"You're a terrible person," she says, as he nuzzles into her neck. She tilts her head to allow him to do what he wishes. He may be a terrible person, but he's not so bad to kiss every now and then. "In fact, I seem to recall that you're older than me."

"Women's ages are like dog years compared to men," he says, his breath hot on her ear. "You age much faster than we do."

"I'm never having sex with you again," she sighs as he nips at the soft skin of her neck. She smells like flowers, like every good smell he's ever smell combined into one, small, delicious package.

"We'll see about that," he says. She's tired of talking and so she hooks her thumbs into his belt loops and tugs him to her. She lays back and he crawls up onto the table, hovers over her and she spreads her hair out so it doesn't tangle. He looks down at her fondly. He's slept with a lot of women and none of them have made him feel like when he's with Paula. Being famous, being rich, going to clubs, sleeping with beautiful women – it's great but it's the same everyday. His fabulous lifestyle has become predictable.

But when he sees Paula, oh. His heart flutters in his chest, his skin comes alive. He wants to touch her all the time; he can't possibly sit still. She does something to him that is chemical. Even when she doesn't make sense, when she's saying something that's infuriating, he wants her. His attraction to her is so physical it hurts him sometimes. She's beautiful to him, intensely so, and he's tried hard to fight it but this was inevitable really, them together. How can he resist? How is he supposed to say no to her?

"You know, it's not actually making out if you never kiss me," she says, draping one leg over his back. This is killing his knees – fantasies are almost always better in his head than in reality but she's just darling underneath him and he kisses her soft and slow. She keeps trying to stick her tongue in his mouth but he pulls back. He wants simple kisses right now; he doesn't want to rush this.

"Slow down," he says. "We have all day."

And they do, she realizes. The whole day. When he kisses her again, she drapes her arms around his neck and kisses him back in just the same way. Like young people, testing their boundaries, learning the art instead of trying to dominate. Sometimes their teeth knock together, sometimes they get a little sloppy but it's just right. Eventually he sits up and pulls her with him, his right knee popping loudly.

"You okay there, grandpa?" she asks.

"Shut up," he says. "You're so much more enjoyable when you can't talk."

"Right back at you," she says, allowing him to help her back to her feet.

"Let's go somewhere else," he says. "I have a sturdy chair in the formal living room."

"Look, I'm all for kinky sex," she says. He smiles but she continues before he can get a wisecrack in. "But what do you say we find a nice soft bed for right now?"

"A soft bed?" he asks.

"I even promise to take off all of my clothes," she baits.

"Well, okay," he says. He lets her exit the game room first and he pats her butt as he closes the door behind her.


	11. Chapter 11

This is not a love story.

Paula reminds herself of this daily. When she sees Simon and Leona on Oprah, she reminds herself of this. When he tells her that he's thinking of buying Leona a house if her single hits number one, she reminds herself of this.

What she and Simon have isn't love. It's not going to be love. He isn't going to romance her, he isn't going to propose, and they aren't going to have children or buy a house together or do any of the things that couples do. After the finale he will go back to London and she will stay stateside and when he comes back for the 8th season of Idol, who knows what will happen? London is far and the men she sleeps with tend to forget about her when they're gone.

On Saturday, she goes in the afternoon to her sister's house. Her nephews are home on spring break and she doesn't get to see them very often. When she arrives, Wendy is alone in her house, waiting for her with coffee. Paula takes the cup, kissing her older sister's cheek affectionately. Wendy has been a good sister through the years; it can't be easy having a celebrity for a sister. It can't be easy having Paula.

"Where are the boys?" Paula asks, sitting at the dining room table across from Wendy.

"Austin brought his girlfriend," Wendy says. "Jenny. She's from, oh, somewhere in the bay area. They went to get breakfast. Alex went with them."

"Girlfriend, huh?" Paula asks.

"She's beautiful," Wendy says. "Stops traffic."

"Really? Good for him. Is she nice?" Paula asks.

"So far," Wendy says.

"It's 2:00 in the afternoon," Paula realizes. "They're getting breakfast?"

"It's spring break," Wendy shrugs. "They didn't get out of bed until 1:00."

"I wish I could still do that," Paula says wistfully.

"Austin didn't tell her you were coming," Wendy says, smiling into her mug. "Apparently she's a fan."

"Aww," Paula says. "She's not with him because of me, right?"

"Well, he told me he told her that his aunt was coming to visit but didn't tell her that you were his aunt."

"How long have they been together?" Paula asks.

"Three months," Wendy says. "Seems kind of mean to me, but you know Austin. He enjoys the shock value."

"I guess," Paula says.

"So," Wendy says, kicking Paula lightly under the table. "Are we going to talk about this Simon thing?"

"Do we have to?" asks Paula.

"Are you in lo-ove?" Wendy asks.

"No," Paula says firmly, reiterating what she's been telling herself since the start. "That isn't what this is about."

"Oh," says Wendy. "What does Alex call it? Friends with something."

"Friends with benefits," Paula offers. "Which is an unpleasant phrase, but I guess it's accurate."

"So if you stopped seeing him you'd be fine," Wendy asks.

"I can't stop seeing him, we work together," Paula points out.

"If you stopped seeing him naked, I meant," Wendy clarifies.

"Oh," says Paula. "Sure. I'd be fine." She would be fine. Things would go back to normal – she could learn to sleep alone again. She'd done it before. While Wendy goes to retrieve the coffee pot she tries to imagine nights without Simon and she ignores the nagging feeling at the back of her throat that tells her she would most definitely not be fine.

They're finishing their second cup of coffee which Paula suspects has been decaf all along when the door opens and Alex bounds into the kitchen, always faster and more excited about life than his brother.

"Aunt Paula!" he exclaims, and she hugs him. He towers over her, both the boys do. "I'm so glad you're here. Jenny is going to pee herself." Wendy shakes her head. Paula frowns, not wanting to be sprung on anyone, but she can hear the voices – Austin's low voice and the higher voice of his young girlfriend.

"Austin, come say hi to your aunt," Wendy bellows. Austin comes into the dining room first followed by the girl, Jenny. And Wendy was right, she's is beautiful. She's tiny, shorter than Paula when Paula's wearing heels and she's lovely with a heart shaped face and hair so blonde it's practically white. Austin hugs Paula and Jenny stands in the doorway, her eyes wide. Paula gives her credit. Other than a surprised expression, she totally keeps her calm. Paula reaches out her hand.

"I'm Paula," she says, trying to keep a smile from curling up the corners of her mouth.

"Jenny," says Jenny. Her handshake is firm and Paula lets her smile spread.

"Austin, you're so mean," Paula says.

"I know," Austin says, sounding pleased with himself. "Jen, you can breathe now." Jenny shoots her boyfriend a glare and steps back, wiping her hands on the back of her shorts.

"Are you having a nice spring break?" Paula asks her. Jenny seems a little dazed and shakes her head, realizing that Paula is actually speaking to her.

"Yes ma'am," she says.

"Okay," Wendy says. "Your aunt can't stay all day, so go take your showers. You two smell like boys."

"Fine," the boys say together and troop upstairs. Jenny looks a little trapped between wanting to follow the boys and stay downstairs with the women. Wendy saves her, walks over to her and takes her hand.

"Stay with us," Wendy says. "Stay with the girls."

"You don't have to be uncomfortable," Paula adds, with a friendly smile.

"Okay," Jenny says, glancing over her shoulder toward the stairs where the boys have escaped. They move out to sit in the sun on the patio of Wendy's backyard. Her garden is just beginning to bloom. The bulbs have come up with the last rain and are brightly dotted around the yard. Wendy could always make anything grow – Paula has killed nearly every houseplant she has ever had.

In the sun is warm, nice and Paula basks in it for a moment, knowing that she should really stay out of the sun at her age, but indulging anyway.

"Where are you from?" Paula asks. While Jenny is blonde and pretty, as a native southern Californian, Paula can spot one of her own and Jenny is not from the south half of the state.

"Sonoma," Jenny says. "Wine country."

"Oh," says Paula. "I bet it's pretty up there."

"Yeah," says Jenny. "I mean yes." Paula can't stand her nerves anymore so she does what she does with any fan who is trying to play it cool.

"So I hear you're a fan," Paula says.

"I am," she says, unable to contain a small smile. "I'm actually pretty furious with Austin right now."

"I would be," Paula agrees.

"He knew I was a fan," she continues, her eyes looking at her lap instead of Paula. "I could have made a fool out of myself."

"No," says Paula. "How?"

"Well," Jenny says, scratching her head uncomfortably, her ponytail swinging and catching the light. "My cell phone rings 'Crazy Cool'."

"It does not," says Paula.

"Yeah," Jenny says. "I can't believe I just admitted that to you, but it does."

"I don't believe you," Paula says with a smile.

"Call me," she says, reaching into the front pouch of her USC sweatshirt and pulling out her phone. Paula gets her phone out and hands it to Jenny. She takes her as if she were accepting the Olympic torch. The awe of touching Paula Abdul's cell phone is threatening to overwhelm her. But she overcomes and types her phone number in and hits send. After a moment, Jenny's phone lights up and indeed it does ring the single. Paula laughs, delightedly. In Jenny's hands, Paula's phone beeps. Jenny looks down and gasps.

"Am I getting another call?" Paula asks, reaching for the phone.

"I think it's Simon Cowell," Jenny says, and Paula snaps her hand back.

"You answer it," Paula says, smiling. "Tell him I'm busy."

"I don't..." Jenny shakes her head.

"Oh, Paula, why do you have to tease him," Wendy asks.

"Answer it!" Paula says and Jenny hits the accept button raises the phone shakily to her ear.

"Paula Abdul's phone," she says, her voice more steady than it has any right to be.

"Who is this?" Simon barks. "Is this Kylie?"

"N-no," says Jenny. "I'm, um, Paula's nephew's girlfriend." Paula, beside her, bursts into laughter.

"Lord," says Simon. "Why are you answering her phone?"

"I'm not really sure what's happening to me right now," Jenny admits. Paula snaps her finger to get Jenny's attention. "Oh yeah," says Jenny. "I'm supposed to tell you that she's busy."

"Like hell," says Simon. "Tell her it's business." Jenny covers the mouthpiece and relays the message but Paula says no.

"Sorry," she says. "May I take a message?"

Paula and Wendy both laugh at this and their giggles become uncontrollable when Jenny pulls the phone from her ear as not to be deafened by Simon's loud ranting. Paula has pity and takes her phone back, still laughing.

"Hello?" she manages.

"Why do you make me talk to strangers? You know I hate strangers," he whines.

"I'm not always waiting by the phone, you know," she says, her voice more serious.

"I know," he says.

"What do you want, Simon. I'm with my family."

"I want you to come with me and the realtor to pick out the house for Leona," he says.

"I don't think so," she says.

"I need a woman's touch," he says. "Why not?"

"Because the tabloids will run some story about us buying a house together," Paula says. "Which is exactly what you didn't want."

"We won't tell the tabloids," Simon says huffing.

"Oh my God," she says. "Listen to yourself."

"Okay," Simon says. "The appointment is for 10:00am tomorrow. I'm just going to assume that you'll come over tonight and that we'll go together in the morning."

"You know what assuming does," she says, and hangs up. But the truth of the matter is, she'll probably go with him. Wendy and Jenny are staring at her with curious expressions.

"Everything all right?" Wendy asks.

"Simon is just... you know. Needy and terrible," Paula says. "Just like on TV."

"Pfft," says Wendy but Paula is saved an explanation by Austin reappearing.

"Has Jenny forgiven me yet?" he asks, poking his head out onto the patio. His hair is wet from his shower.

"I haven't decided," Jenny says.

"I'll just brave it," he says, sitting in the chair between his aunt and mother; his girlfriend remains safely across the table. "We're going to see grandma tomorrow," he says to Paula. "Are you coming with us?"

"I can't," she finds herself saying. "I have a 10:00am appointment." Her giving into Simon has nothing to do with him and everything to do with wanting to avoid her mother. Wendy is her mother's daughter and Paula is a daddy's girl and it has always been this way and will always be.

Paula leaves her family a few hours later and drives to Simon's out of habit, really. She should go home but she doesn't. Simon, to his benefit, doesn't give her a hard time about showing up. He opens the door and kisses her hello and then goes back to his office. He's on a conference call and so she goes into the living room and puts on the Lakers game and settles into the sofa for the long haul. She pulls the throw blanket over her shoulders and devotes about fifteen percent of her attention to the game and the rest of it to closing her eyes and semi-napping.

She's been tired lately and has been thinking about trying to arrange more days off. Having that day alone with Simon had been good and she thinks that maybe if she slowed down, even just a tiny bit, the world would continue to spin.

"Darling," Simon says, softly.

"I'm awake," she mutters not bothering to open her eyes.

"You feel okay?" he asks. She opens one eye and he is looking down at her, something like concern almost on her face.

"When you go to England, what then?" she asks. She hadn't even realized that this has been bothering her, that it has been on her mind, but once she says it, she desperately wants to know the answer.

"What then?" he asks, sitting down on the edge of the sofa that her body doesn't take up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she says, blinking against the sunset that filters in through the windows. The game is over now and the post-game commentary drones on in the background. "Will you miss me?"

"Hopefully not," he says. "Because I thought you might come."

"To England?"

"You've visited before," he points out. She has – once for the X-Factor and once just because, for vacation and because she wanted to see him. She'd stayed in his house with Terri and they had shown her the sights and let her sleep late. Now, if she went, she'd sleep with him instead of in the guest room.

"Oh," she says, now.

"All right, then? Can we save this life altering discussion for another time and focus on the next few hours?" He is snotty.

"What did you want?" she asks.

"Want to go to Ryan's house?" he asks.

"When?"

He glances at his watch. "Now-ish." She sighs as if this is all a very big inconvenience.

"Will he feed me?" she asks.

"Probably," Simon says, laughing. "Come on, let's go. Before Randy drinks all the good alcohol."

"Wait, is this a party party?" she asks, sitting up.

"You look fine," he says because about half of what she says has to do with how she looks or is going to look or did look and while Simon appreciates her beauty, he never really wants to talk about it.

Paula is quiet in the car – it's not far to Ryan's house or, more accurately, sprawling mansion. There is no doubt Ryan Seacrest is going places. When they get there, there are other cars but not too many. Paula recognizes Randy's car, Nigel's sporty import, and there are at least three other cars she doesn't recognize.

"I hope this isn't boring," Simon says, when he comes around to open Paula's door for her.

"If it is, we'll just sneak off and do something bad," she says. A part of her feels like being bad. Maybe her mid-day nap has made her feisty, but she feels good, all of a sudden, stepping into the night air and hearing the voices from inside drift merrily down to her.

"Why wait?" he says, and closes the door so he can press her back against it. His body is a warm juxtaposition to the cold metal behind her. She's in heels but he still has to bend to kiss her and her skirt is tight enough that she has to reposition her feet to keep her balance when he slips his knee between her legs.

She gets lost for a moment, they both do, when their tongues are touching and their mouths are warm and together. She gets lost when his hands settle onto her hips and she knows it makes him a little crazy when she bites his bottom, pouting lip. She nips at him and he makes a little noise of surrender.

The front door of the house opens and spills a wedge of light out onto the driveway and Paula jumps but Simon doesn't pull away so she lets the kiss continue.

"Oh my God!" Randy's voice carries across any amount of space, especially a dark and quiet driveway. Paula has to give Simon a hard shove to get him to step away from her and he grins. He's playing a little game with her – he wants to know how far she'll let things go.

"Hi Randy," she calls and gives a little wave. She leaves Simon at the car and rushes up the steps to where Randy has been shocked into silence.

"Man, I've seen you two kiss before but that was like, serious," he says, his voice a hissing whisper.

"Yeah, what if you didn't tell anyone?" she says, smiling.

"Dude," Randy says. "I think you two burned my retinas." Simon comes strolling up, and locks the car with the remote by holding it over his shoulder. The car beeps an acknowledgment, flashing twice.

"Don't be dramatic," Simon says to Randy who throws up his hands exasperatedly. "What?" he says. "Like you've never thought about kissing her."

"I've kissed her," Randy says. "And so have you, but not like... that."

"What if we all talked about how I'm a kiss whore later," Paula says. "Let's just go in."

"You!" Randy says. "You were all like, no way on the plane! You were like, it would never work with him. You little liar!"

"I didn't lie," Paula says, uncomfortably.

"You told him that we wouldn't work?" Simon asks, looking slightly wounded. She can't tell if he's affected or serious.

"I said probably," Paula says. "And only because we agreed not to say anything."

"You have no faith in me," Simon pouts.

"Gosh, I can't believe why," Paula snaps. "You're the freaking king of mixed signals right now."

"I thought my signal was pretty clear a second ago," Simon says, taking her hand.

"That's enough of that," Randy says and walks back into the house. Paula yanks her hand away and follows him and Simon has little recourse but to step in and close the door. The living room holds Ryan and Nigel, a few other producers and Idol staff, and a new girl, probably Ryan's date. Paula has seen a variety of different girls on Ryan's arm but few more than once or twice.

"Finally," Ryan calls and stands up to kiss Paula's cheek. "We were beginning to wonder."

"Oh, they were here," Randy says.

"Shut up, Randy," Simon snaps.

"What?" Ryan asks.

"I caught them making out," Randy says, narrowing his eyes defiantly and Simon. Paula is shocked, really. She asked Randy flat out to stay quiet. Her cheeks redden as the room erupts into catcalls. Simon gives a smug little bow and Paula covers her face with her hands.

"Is this true, Paula?" Ryan asks, in his I'm-the-host voice.

"It's not what you think," Paula says, meekly.

"It is," Simon says, pulling her to him and trapping her with an arm around her neck. "We were kissing."

"I would be ashamed to admit to kissing Simon too," Ryan says, laughing.

"That's why we keep it a secret when you and I do it, Ryan," Simon says to him with a wink.

"Shut it," he says. "But I can't be mad because I KNEW IT AND I TOLD YOU SO," he says, dancing around to the thrill of their small audience.

"I really hate all of you," Paula says and she means it.

Simon telling the truth, admitting freely and happily that they were kissing, that they are together, has thrown her for a loop. It's thrown Nigel also; he's the only one without a huge grin on his face. He looks somewhere between perturbed and mad, like he's already spinning the media in his mind.

"Come on," Simon says. "I want food and alcohol so let's talk about something else."

Paula keeps her mouth shut and she does so for most of the evening. When people rib and tease her, make kissy noises in her direction, or shoot her knowing looks all night, she keeps her responses and opinions to herself. She sits next to Simon but she does not touch his arm or sit so their thighs brush on the sofa. Simon lets her pout, keeps his space.

Because, after all, this is not a love story. He can tell the world that they're sleeping together, or he can not. He can kiss her slow and deep, he can sleep with his hand in her hair, he can make her breakfast in the morning and dinner at night, or he can never see her again.

Paula has been in love and this isn't it. It's not love. She doesn't love him.

She doesn't.

She doesn't.


	12. Chapter 12

Simon wakes her up in the middle of the night. Not on purpose, really. He gets up to use the bathroom and then steps out onto her balcony to smoke a cigarette. He wakes up one of the dogs and Tulip scratches at the door after him to be let out.

Paula wakes up – can see his profile and the glow at the end of his cigarette. She'd made him drive her home from Ryan's and then didn't let him in the house for an hour. And when she finally did, she went upstairs and told him to enjoy the couch. And when she allowed him to come to bed, she rolled over so her back was to him and went to sleep angry.

Now, she feels the anger leave her body and mostly she just wants to touch him and for him to touch her back. She climbs out of bed even though it's cold and she pushes the dog aside with her foot to let herself out onto the balcony. He turns, surprised, and looks at her with the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Hey," she says.

"Hello," he says. "Did I wake you?"

"I don't know," she says, rubbing her face. "You weren't in bed."

"I thought that's what you wanted," he says. She deserves this – he gets to be mad too, if he wants. But she isn't mad anymore.

"No," she says. "It isn't."

"It's my life too," he says. She can tell he's been holding this statement in. That he let her rant and rave at him all night and now he gets to have his say.

"I know," she says.

"Do you?" he accuses. "You're so mad that I let your secret out, but it's my secret too."

"I overreacted," she admits, wrapping her arms around herself. Her feet are cold now too and she wishes that she'd bothered to put on slippers. He keeps smoking but the cigarette is almost gone and he does blow the smoke away from her. "Nigel promised that it didn't leave the room."

"And what if it does?" he asks. "What if we wake up and it's on the TV and the radio and the newsstands?"

"Then people know," she says. "Life goes on."

"Life goes on!?" he exclaims. "Four hours ago, you were ready to eviscerate me. You made me stand on the porch for an hour! You threw a pillow at my head and broke a vase!"

"I know," she says. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he scoffs. "You really are nuts."

"You make me crazy," she admits. "You always have."

He stubs out his cigarette and drops the butt into an empty can she has left out there for him. Their relationship seems to be a series of small concessions.

"Simon," she says. "I really am sorry. It's just, we're in this weird place and I thought we'd figure things out before we started telling people. And I was surprised that you even wanted people to know."

"What is there to figure out?" he asks.

"Can we do this inside? I'm freezing," she says. He nods and they go inside. She heads straight back to bed, hoping for residual warmth under the covers. He takes a mouthful of Listerine and spits it into the sink before coming back to bed. She lifts the covers for him, an invitation and then cuddles up to him.

"So?" he prompts.

"You don't think we need to figure anything out?" she asks. "You think what we're doing is all squared away?"

"What do you mean what we're doing?" he asks.

"Are we dating? Are we just sleeping together? Should we tell people? How will it affect the show? The rest of my career? What do you want out of all of this?" she asks.

"Jesus," he says. "That's a lot of questions all in a row."

"Well!"

"I try not to let my career or American Idol run my love life," he says. "What I want out of all of this is you. And as for dating, I'm not sure. Am I sleeping with other people? No. Do I want to? Not really," he says. "Does that about cover it?"

"Not really?" she says.

"Well, if Adriana Lima calls me up tomorrow, we may need to work out some sort of arrangement, but short of that, no," he says.

"I'm never going to compare to the Adriana Limas' and Terri Seymours' of the world," she warns him.

"Why should you want to?" he asks.

"Why should I want to be tall and leggy and beautiful?" she asks. "Gee."

"You're just as beautiful," he says. "Only in a more compact package."

She doesn't believe him, exactly, but she lets him think that she does.

Simon goes out of town for a few days.

While he's gone, Paula notices that she's late. The first day she lets go even though she's always been extremely regular, especially on the pill. The second day, she feels the flutter of panic starting behind her eyes. The third day, she spends the morning waiting impatiently and when it doesn't come, she asks Pam to make her an emergency appointment with her gynecologist.

"Is everything okay?" Pam asks, worriedly.

"I'm late," Paula says.

"Late for what?" Pam asks, glancing at her Blackberry. Paula rolls her eyes. "Oh," says Pam.

"Yeah," says Paula.

"Do you think?" Pam asks.

"I don't know," says Paula.

"Do you feel any different?" Pam asks.

"I feel freaked the hell out," Paula says. "Don't tell Jeff, or Kylie, or Daniel."

"No," Pam says. "What about... what about Mr. Cowell?"

"He's gone until late tonight," Paula says, as they get into the car. "No need to worry him."

Lying on her back in a paper gown is not how she wanted to spend her Monday afternoon, and her legs up in stirrups is definitely salt in the wound. Her doctor, a woman around her own age who has been seeing Paula for years, leans back and taps her knee, letting her know it's okay to put her legs down and relax.

"Everything seems okay," the doctor says. "We have your urine and I'm going to get some blood as well, but I wouldn't worry."

"Not worry?" Paula squeaks. Her doctor gives her a calm smile.

"Get dressed and we'll talk in my office," she says and leaves Paula alone to regroup. She feels like she needs a shower in the worst way. Clothes never fit right after a trip to the gynecologist, her hair is never the same, and she feels violated enough that her cheeks flush. But, she wipes away the cold gel as best she can and redresses. In the doctor's office, she only waits a few minutes.

"Hi," the doctor says. "Well, you're not pregnant."

"Oh," says Paula, both relieved and a minutely disappointed. But mostly relieved. "Well. Good."

"I'm glad to hear that's good news for you," her doctor says, sitting behind her desk. She flicks open Paula's file and scans it.

"I was worried," Paula offers. "I mean I'm never late."

"Well, with all due respect, you're 45. Irregularity is one of the first signs of menopause." The candidness of the words is something Paula is unaccustomed too. People tend to sugarcoat things for her. Well, people who aren't Simon.

"Menopause," Paula says, softly. "Of course. So that's it then."

"No," the doctor says. "Menopause can take years to manifest completely. It varies woman to woman – I tend to advise my patients to speak to the older women in their family to try to form a timeline of their own progression. As for you, you're probably pre-menopausal at most. Especially since you're on the pill – that will put off effects of menopause for as long as you take it."

"So I can still get pregnant?" Paula asks.

"Yes," the doctor says, though a little hesitantly. "Anyone over 40 is considered a high-risk pregnancy but it is certainly not out of the question. The pill is not 100% effective. If you're looking to get pregnant I can refer you to a fertility specialist..."

"Not necessary," Paula says, holding up a hand. "Do you have any suggestions to get me back on my regular schedule?"

"What I suggest you do is go off your pill for a while," the doctor says. "Let your body get back into its natural cycle and just let nature take its course. If after a few months you want to go back onto the pill, we'll talk about some higher dose options."

Paula leaves the doctors office in a sort of daze. She's glad Pam is driving because if she'd been driving she probably would have been in San Francisco before she snapped out of it. She's been on the pill since her early twenties – even through both her marriages. Emilio hadn't wanted children and she and Brad had barely even talked about it before things had fallen apart.

When she gets home, she goes into the bathroom and finds blood, dark and moist against the crisp lining of her underwear. She expects relief – she knows she isn't pregnant but this is proof. Instead, she bursts into tears and throws the underwear into the trash.

Pam clears Paula's schedule for the rest of her day and then clears the house. Twenty minutes after she is left alone, Simon calls her.

"You okay?" he asks.

"What?"

"Your assistant called me. She seemed odd," he says. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she lies. "I thought you weren't back until tonight."

"I'll be in L.A. by 8:00 at the latest," he promises. "I was going to come over. I miss you."

"You must be tired. Don't you want to go home and crash?" Paula says. "I'll see you for Idol tomorrow, after all."

"I haven't seen you for three days," Simon says. "I don't want to sleep, I want to have sex with you." So blunt and honest, her Simon.

"I can't," Paula says. "I'm on my period."

"You're usually done by now," he says. The fact that he knows this weirds her out immensely.

"How do you KNOW that?" she asks.

"Aside from the fact that we practically live together, I've sat next to you for seven years. You think I don't notice the week that you're intolerable?"

"Intolerable?" she says, softly. The word stings and he can hear in her voice that he hurt her.

"Emotional," he offers as a correction. "You are all right, aren't you?"

"I was late," Paula says. "Three days."

"Why didn't you call me?" he squawks.

"What would you have said?" she wants to know.

"I don't know," he says. "I could have... I don't know."

"Just go home," she says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait," he says. "Paula, I want to come over and see you. I don't just want you for sex, I want to see you." She sighs, even though it's just the right thing to say.

"I'm going to bed," she says. "You can let yourself in." But she doesn't go to sleep. She's tired and with her period has come cramps and aches that her already sore body doesn't need. She lies in her bed with the heating pad plugged in and hot on her lower back. Time ticks through, feeling sluggish but before she knows it, it's already after eleven and she can hear his key in the door. The dogs all leap up gleefully at the noise and rush downstairs. She can hear him cooing to them softly and they all come up the stairs together. Her lamp is on and she greets him propped up on pillows. She's in her sports bra and a pair of his boxers with the covers kicked off because she's hot enough with the heating pad.

"Hi," Simon says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "I thought you'd be asleep."

"Nope," she says. "How was your trip?"

"It was fine," he says, dropping his shoulder bag and walking up to the edge of the bed. He reaches out and touches her bare belly, low where he imagines the pain to be. His skin is cool and hers is clammy and he leans over awkwardly to kiss her. "I'm tired, though."

"Me too," she says. "I couldn't sleep knowing you were coming over."

"Sorry," he says, pulling his shirt off. Betsy Moo climbs the stairs at the foot of the bed and curls up next to Paula who pats her absently while watching Simon undress.

"Don't be sorry," she says. "I was bitchy on the phone."

"I wish I would have been here," he says, kicking off his pants. He leaves them in a ball on the floor, which she hates. Still, it's a small thing to argue about. In the morning, she'll pick them up on the way to the bathroom and sniff them. If they smell like cigarettes they go into the laundry, otherwise she'll fold them and put them back into one of his drawers. They're going to have to sort out clothing space issues soon. He has two drawers of her bureau and she has practically an entire wardrobe at his house. The moment he got the last of Terri's things cleared out, she took over the closet.

Now, in bed, he lies down next to her and kisses her shoulder, her knuckles, her palm.

"Will you turn off the lamp?" she asks. He reaches across her and douses the light. He is happy to be with her, to smell her smell again and listen to her breathing in the darkness.

She realizes that he must really be tired because his breath evens out pretty quickly and she's still pretty awake. She's been thinking about Simon a lot lately, about the state of their relationship. During all those early years of Idol – first when they weren't friends and then when they were – everything they did had an overlay of sexual tension. He'd tease her and she'd get so mad. Mad that he had the nerve to tell the world over and over again that she wanted him and mad because she realized that it was sometimes true. Now, with that tension good and broken, she's come to a certain realization.

Simon has always wanted her too, and she is beginning to suspect he'd wanted her far more than he'd ever let on. He'd always painted himself high upon his pedestal with her down below, never quite good enough for him, but really, they'd been on equal ground all along. She never expected Simon to be this sweet to her, to be this needy. She never expected Simon to actually like being with her when they both had all of their clothes on.

And saying that the sexual tension is broken isn't exactly accurate. They have relieved the tension between them by having become regular lovers, but having sex with him hasn't quenched the fire like she thought it might. Part of her truly believed that with Simon, once would have been enough and then they could figure out how to remain friends and colleagues. It might have worked that way if they'd just had sex, but the weeks of foreplay, of sleeping and cuddling and kissing beneath warm covers in dark bedrooms had changed their dynamics significantly. They've become important to one another.

She looks at him next to her, the sheet over him sleeping and she is suddenly extremely glad that he's beside her. She unplugs the heating pad and tosses it away. She pulls the comforter up over them and rearranges herself so she is flush against him. She can fall asleep now, she knows, with him beside her.

In the morning, on set, she has a break between the morning meeting and needing to get started on hair and make-up. She wanders out to Simon's trailer. They'd taken separate cars to work that morning and they'd sat several seats apart during the meeting. Nigel and everyone who'd been at Ryan's house kept to their word and didn't mention their relationship at all. Ryan had looked like he'd very much wanted to spill their dirty little secret but he hadn't.

She knocks on the trailer door and it's only a few seconds before he opens it.

"Yes, I'm very busy and important. May I help you?" he says, looking down at her through the screen. She, not exactly in a teasing mood, turns on her heel and starts to walk away. "Paula!" he cries, opening the screen. "I was kidding." She stops and looks at him over her shoulder.

"All right," she says and comes back, giving him a little smile. He holds her hand as she climbs up the narrow steps in even narrower heels. He closes the door behind her, not wanting to let any cool air out into the hot day. As March rolls into April, the weather has been getting warmer and warmer. "I'm bored," she admits.

"Don't you have like four hours of make-up to do?" he asks, reaching into the little fridge and handing her a Diet Coke. She accepts it gratefully and then hands it back to him. It's hard for her to open the tab with her nails and he pops it open for her and gives it back.

"Not for a while," she says. "And thank you for implying it takes half the day for me to look even presentable."

"Meow," he says. "You're crabby."

"Sorry," she says, looking around his kitchen for a straw. There's a pack of them in the drawer by his sink and she picks out a blue one for herself and slides it into the mouth of the can. "I am, sort of."

"It's okay," he says, wrapping his arms around her from behind. "Simon will make you better." He kisses the top of her head and she does feel a little better. It's nice in the trailer – the sunlight coming through the slatted blinds makes everything feel soft and comfortable.

"You do make me feel better," she says, honestly. "It's like magic. I see you and things are better." He turns her around and kisses her soundly. Her mouth is cool and tastes like her soda and his is hot and tastes faintly of those disgusting cigarettes but neither care. He breaks off the kiss.

"You can be grumpy if you want too," he says.

"Thanks," she says.

"Fuller is coming by in a few minutes," he says.

"I can go," she says.

"No, you don't have to. You can go lay down if you want, or stay for the meeting. I don't care."

She doesn't think about being tired until he mentions lying down, but as soon as he suggests it, it sounds wonderful.

"I'll lay down," she says. "Will you wake me when you're done, if I fall asleep?"

"Yep," he says. She moves to the back of the trailer where the bed is, as well as the bathroom and shower. It's a nice trailer, as far as lot trailers are concerned and though she was jealous at first, it is sort of far from the set and the heart of the operation. She'd probably feel secluded if everyone had trailers instead of dressing rooms.

But when she lies down, the bed is awfully nice. She kicks off her shoes and relaxes. She hears Simon Fuller knock and enter and the strained pleasantries between the two men. It occurs to her, as she's lying there quiet as a mouse, that Fuller hadn't been at the party at Ryan's and probably didn't yet know about Simon and Paula. What a surprise he'd get if she walked out of Simon's bedroom but of course she wouldn't do that.

She can hear them clearly, discussing Idol Gives Back and some project she isn't sure about. She closes her eyes and allows herself to drift off. She doesn't sleep fully, just drifts in a doze where she's aware of Simon and Fuller but not at all paying attention.

And then, she hears something else, something familiar. It's her cell phone in the front where she'd set it when she came in. The voices stop as the phone rings.

"You going to get that?" Fuller asks.

"Um," Simon says.

"That's not your phone," Fuller says.

"Yes it is," Simon lies.

"Your mobile ring is Girls Just Wanna Have Fun?" Fuller prods.

"Yes," Simon insists. Paula rolls her eyes. Sometimes he could be the worst liar, which was so ironic it hurt. She hears movement.

"And your dad is calling you?" Fuller insists. "Your dead father is calling you and your ring tone for him is Cyndi Lauper?"

"All right, it isn't my phone," Simon admits. Duh, Paula thinks.

"I hope you've patched things up with Terri because if you're hiding some 25-year-old porn star in here, I'm going to be upset."

"Excuse me?" Simon asks. "Since when do you get to have a say in my love life?"

"Since every on-set guest pass is signed off by me," Fuller says. "I didn't issue one for you today, Cowell, and you know the danger of smuggling strangers onto the set!"

Paula looks down at the plastic identification tag that hangs around her neck. Her picture is on it, as well as her name and her barcode. Fuller has a point – unidentified people being on set is how stories get leaked to the press and after the Corey Coles incident, something she still loathes thinking about to this very moment, security became a lot more intense.

"I didn't sneak any one on, come on," Simon says. Paula, having had about enough of this, climbs off the bed and opens the door separating them. Both men look up at her.

"It's my phone," she says, trying to sound sweet. "Could I have it, please?" Fuller offers her the phone and she tucks it into her pocket. She has her shoes in her hand and doesn't want to walk across the parking lot in her socks but she also doesn't want to stay here while Simon explains himself.

"What are you doing here?" Fuller manages finally.

"I was just leaving, actually," she says. "See you later, Si."

He looks at her, he can't hide his smirk at her playing it cool. She can tell he doesn't want her to leave him alone with this mess, but he's on his own. He could have told the truth. He could have said, "Oh, it's Paula's phone and she left it here and I'll get it back to her when we're done here" but he didn't. Instead he fumbled it all around and she makes sure the door is latched firmly behind her. She sits on the steps and slides her feet back into her shoes before looking down at her phone and activating her recent calls list. She pushes the call button.

"Hi daddy," she says and heads back to her dressing room for hair and make-up.


	13. Chapter 13

"When are you going to tell me about this new man," her father says into her ear as she settles into her make-up chair.

"What new man?" Paula asks, inwardly cursing her sister's big flapping mouth. Wendy had promised to keep Simon a secret but Wendy also loved to drop hints.

"I haven't seen you in weeks," Harry says. "Something is occupying your attention."

"It's a busy time," she says, glancing at the large clock on the wall. Miraculously she is five minutes early for her appointment. Daniel might possibly die of shock when he comes in to see her already in the chair.

"Are you busy tonight?" he asks. "We could have dinner."

"Dad," Paula says patiently. "It's Tuesday. I have to film the show tonight."

Sometimes her father's mind is sharp as a tack, sometimes he's right there with her. And other times, he forgets things, like the fact that five months out of the year, she's busy on Tuesday and Wednesday nights. She tries not to worry, but his spotty memory has been getting worse as of late.

"Of course, of course," he says.

"But maybe on Thursday, okay?" she says. "We could eat dinner."

"You could come to the house," he says. "I replaced my old chair."

She's seen the new chair already, but he doesn't remember. She worries at her bottom lip. She doesn't need to be freaked out about her father all night. Not sounding like an idiot is hard enough.

"Okay," she says. "I'll call you Thursday morning?"

"Okay, princess," he says. "I love you."

"I love you too, daddy," she says, and hangs up.

She's still staring at the now dark screen of her phone when Daniel comes in.

"Holy crap, it's a miracle!" he shouts. "Jesus is magic!" Paula looks up, shakes off the feeling of doubt that is plaguing her and laughs at Daniel's astonishment.

"That's what they say," she says.

"You're here," he says. "Before me."

"I am," she says. "Let's go."

Daniel is just about done with her when Simon comes into the make-up, looking none too happy.

"Hi Simon," Paula says. He glances at her, narrows his eyes.

"We need to talk," he says. She can't help but smile at his anger, so misplaced and overwrought.

"Sure," she says. "I'm almost done."

"Be done now," he says and the room gets quiet – the quiet of all the air being vacuumed out swiftly. Paula looks at him evenly, waiting for him to apologize. But he doesn't, of course, not even a 'Sorry' that he clearly doesn't mean.

"I'm done when I'm done and if you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself," she says, her voice eerily calm. She doesn't stutter or trip over the words. She's mad at his pompousness and he's mad at her for not giving in. They haven't had a blow out fight since before her new gate and she's been thinking, deep in the back of her mind, that it is about time.

"Guys, can we have the room?" Simon says.

"Simon," Paula says. "We have a show. You can't clear the make-up room."

"We'll go," offers Mallory who has been standing around, waiting for Ryan to get out of his run-through.

"No," says Paula. "Go to my dressing room, Simon, I'll be there in five minutes."

Simon storms out and everyone is left staring at her. Her make up is finished and her hair is practically done. All she has to do is get into her clothes.

"Hurry up," she says to Daniel who goes back to fussing with her hair.

"What crawled up his ass and died?" Daniel asks under his breath.

"This week?" Paula asks which gets a laugh and breaks the awful tension. Everyone chuckles.

"Just go," Daniel says. "I'll give you a spruce when you get dressed."

"Joy," she says. "If no one sees me by show time, I'd send a search party for my body."

The hallway between make-up and her dressing room seems awfully short today and she walks it slowly. She really isn't in the mood for a shouting match. Simon has been nice, lately, but she knows he can be hurtful. He can strike her down with one word. He knows all her vulnerabilities, every chink in her armor.

She turns the handle and pushes open the door. He's standing at her vanity, staring at himself. A thousand words pop into her head: egotistical, vain, narcissistic being at the top of the list but she just closes the door. This is Simon's fight, not hers and she's not going to pick at him.

"I think you should know that I got chewed out like a school boy," he says, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The lights are too bright and make his skin look shiny and pink. He hasn't been through make-up yet and she can see every line on his face, the circles beneath his eyes. They are both showing their age more and more.

"He's the boss," she says. "What we're doing will affect his show."

"Why are you being so practical about all this?" he shouts, spinning around. She flinches. She wishes she left the door open. Her fear of him is unfounded and irrational but when a man starts shouting at her, something inside her gives a little and the fear of being hit reasserts itself with some force.

After all, Brad's one month anniversary gift to her had been the imprint of her his hand in bruises across her forearm. Men can change; they can turn on a dime. She takes a step back.

"Would you rather I be an emotional wreck?" she asks. "I was mad, remember? And you called me ridiculous."

"This is different," he seethes.

"I'm sorry you got yelled at," she says.

"Why didn't you just stay back there?" he asks.

"He KNEW someone was back there," she says. "What would you have said?"

"I would have lied!" he shouts and she can see that he wants to cram the words back in his mouth almost immediately. "Wait, that isn't..."

"I just," she puts her hand to her forehead. "What are we doing Simon? We don't even have a game plan. We're just stumbling through this like amateurs. It's stupid and we're going to pay for it."

"Not everything is a career move," he says. She laughs, a hollow and ugly sound.

"Maybe not for you," she says. "But I'm out of chances."

"No," he argues.

"And besides, we're crap at keeping this a secret. Every day the circle of people who know about us gets wider," she says. "I think we should just..."

"Just what?" he prods. Her stomach feels like it's going to fall out the bottom of her and she wants to stop this talk, to curl up in his arms and let him run his fingers down her neck.

"We either need to admit what's going on or we need to call it off," she says.

"I don't want to do either," he says. She shrugs. "Are you giving me an ultimatum, Paula?"

"I'm just saying," she says. "We're not the type of people who can be mysterious. I can't be mysterious, I'm no good at it." She knows she wears her heart on her sleeve, she always has and this running around telling the press that everything is exactly the same has been exhausting. OK! had run a four-page spread on the implosion of of Simon and Terri and while they hadn't come out and said there was another woman, the implication had been there and Paula hadn't exactly come out smelling of roses.

"It's no ones business," he maintains.

"That's bullshit and you know it," she says, her voice rising. "You gave up your right to privacy when you became a celebrity. We don't get to have private lives, Simon! You get 40 million dollars instead, so let that be a consolation prize."

"I want both," he says.

"Too bad," she snaps. "Even you can't have everything."

They are quiet for a moment. He turns his back to her, maybe to regroup a little. He runs his hands over the things sitting on her vanity. A bottle of perfume, a silver bracelet, a silk flower sitting in a small porcelain vase. There's a framed picture of her nephews when they were still chubby babies. He touches the glass, briefly.

"All I mean is you could've stayed."

"What?" she asks.

"We could have talked to Fuller together but you left me alone," he says.

"I didn't leave you," she says. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," he says, but he doesn't look convinced.

"Si?"

"What?"

"How old were you when you lost your father?" she asks. He looks surprised – her question has taken the last of the steam out of their fight.

"Young," he says. "Too young."

"Oh."

"Is something wrong with your dad?" he asks, stepping closer.

"No. I don't know. He's losing... I mean, he doesn't remember very well any more," she says.

"He's getting older, darling," Simon says. "Do you think it's more than that?"

"I don't know," she says.

"You know we can get him the best care when the time comes," Simon says. She likes that he says 'we,' and he reaches out to cup her face. "Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I should've stayed."

"No," he says. "I'm a big boy."

She hugs him. Breathes in his familiar smell.

Someone knocks on the door and a glance at the clock tells her it's probably Kylie with her outfit. They part and Simon opens the door.

"See you on set, Miss Abdul," he says. She smiles.

On Sunday, they film Idol Gives Back. Simon chooses her dress out of the options that Kylie has sent over in advance. He likes the red, he likes the way it forms to her, the way it bunches at her leg to give him a little show. Paula likes doing the charity show. Mostly they get to just be a part of the audience. They have a few bits but not much to do. She and Randy filmed their Save the Children segment over the summer and Simon went to New York before Hollywood week even started.

At the Kodak, she sits sandwiched between Simon and Randy as she always does. Erika, Randy's wife, sits next to her husband and they whisper throughout the performance. Simon sits with his hand on her lap or over her shoulder. He leans in to chat with her too, commenting on the video segments or the band playing.

He makes sure the camera isn't on him, that no camera is on them when he leans over and places a soft kiss on her neck, just below where her jawbone sits at an angle. No one should be paying attention because Heart is on stage and Fergie's doing one handed cartwheels (Paula hasn't done one of those in years) and no one should be looking so he swoops in and kisses her – the tip of his tongue touches her skin. Behind them, Jordin Sparks gasps audibly which is a feat because Nancy Wilson is playing the hell out of her guitar.

Paula looks over her shoulder and winks at Jordin.

But for every kiss that Simon drops caringly onto some part of her body, there are disagreements, fights, nights filled with the things they do not say.

Sometimes he is like a ghost in her house. He drifts around, turning corners when she enters the room or hallway, so she just catches glimpses of him but can never quite keep up. When he's in a bad mood, he lights a second cigarette with the end of his first one and stays outside for long periods of time. Sometimes he leaves without saying goodbye and all she has of him is a smoldering cigarette butt, burning through the filter in an empty coffee can.

Just because they can tell each other everything doesn't mean that they do. Simon never explains why he scraps the idea of buying Leona the house after they'd spent three hours traipsing through empty mansions. He doesn't tell her why he spends two nights in a row alone in his house and he doesn't explain why she comes home one day to find him skimming leaves off the surface of her pool with a blue net.

"What are you doing?" she asks, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head, squinting at him.

"I needed something to do with my hands," he says, tapping the net against the concrete rapidly. The leaves fall out into a wet, mushy pile. It's too cryptic for her to craft a response that's clever.

"I have a service come," she says, her bag heavy on her shoulder. The strap is twisted and sitting wrong against her bra strap. It's digging into her shoulder but she doesn't bother to straighten it out. "They clean the pool once a week. You don't have to do that."

"I understand that, Paula, but I'm going to do it anyway if that's all right with you."

He doesn't face her – she has a clear profile shot of him. His face is red from the sun and she can see that he's sweating through his gray t-shirt. She wants to know how long he's been out here. The pool looks pretty good so probably a while since the Santa Ana winds had wreaked havoc on her yard during the night.

"Okay," she says. She knows that it's best to step back and let him work himself out of this snit. He'll either tell her why he's mad or he won't but either way, she doesn't want to stick her fingers in it today.

Inside she feeds the dogs and turns on the radio in the kitchen. She turns on all the fans downstairs so that the air moves around her and she turns on the oven. She'd thawed some fish and set about making dinner – putting rice in the cooker and drizzling olive oil into a frying pan for the asparagus. Simon comes in when the fish is already in the oven and she's crushing big cloves of garlic with the broad side of her knife.

"Smells good," he says, which could be an olive branch to her. She's not sure yet.

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"About half an hour," she says. "You going to take a shower?"

"Yeah," he says again. He goes into the downstairs bathroom. It's not even really a guest bathroom since the guestroom is upstairs, but it has a shower well stocked with shampoo and French-milled soaps and fluffy white towels so there's no reason that it shouldn't get used. But still, it's odd that he walks into that once since his body wash and razor are upstairs in the master, along with her things.

She's pulling the fish out of the oven when he opens the door. A billow of steam precedes him and he comes out with a towel around his waist and his dirty clothes balled under one arm.

"Two minutes," she calls, watching him climb the stairs.

She puts the rice in a white bowl and transfers the fish to the matching, rectangular platter. She thinks about just dumping the asparagus on along with the fish, but Simon has a weird thing about his food touching so she doesn't. She's trying to reach another platter when he comes downstairs, dressed but barefoot.

"Need help?" he asks. She points and he reaches the platter easily.

"Thanks," she says, taking it from his hand. He sits down while she plates the last dish and then sets the asparagus on the table. She's put a little effort into this. She used nice plates, cloth napkins. She filled a glass pitcher with ice water and he fills their glasses now, the ice cubes clinking merrily into the glasses as they fall in with the water. She serves him first, big portions and he makes a show of spreading his napkin across the lap of his blue jeans. She's in a pantsuit, still dressed from her day, and he smiles at her.

"Should I have dressed for dinner?" he asks, teasingly.

"No," she says. "You're fine." She takes off her jacket as if to illustrate and drapes it on the back of her chair. She's got just a white, sleeveless blouse on under but it feels nice, cooler. She serves herself and he waits until she sits down to start eating.

"So," he says. "Why are we playing house tonight?"

Her fork pauses and the rice falls back onto her plate. She glances down, a little embarrassed, and sets the fork down.

"We're not playing," she says carefully.

"You know what I mean," he says.

"We aren't teenagers," she says, a little less calmly.

"Paula."

"Why do I get the feeling that no matter what I do, you're never going to take me seriously?" she asks, throwing her napkin onto the table.

"Jesus Christ," he says. "You're mad?"

"Yes!"

"You don't get to be mad, Paula," he says. "I'm mad."

"What the hell are you mad about?" she asks. She realizes now that he's been pissy for a few days now and while she has been trying to give him space, he has been waiting for her to ask him about it.

"What do you think?" he snaps. She thinks for a moment, really thinks because she wants to get it right. It dawns on her.

"The VH1 interview," she says. "You were in New York."

"I read the transcript," he says.

"You told me to keep my press the same," she says. "You wanted me to do the love-hate thing with you for the media."

"This was all hate," he says. "And I think you were being quite honest."

"What do you want me to say?"

"You called me angry!" he accuses.

"You are," she says.

"You blamed me for the downfall of your career," he says. "You called me hideous."

"I called what you did hideous," she corrects. "And it was. You started the whole Coca-Cola cup fiasco and you've never once apologized to me for it."

"It was a joke and everyone but you understood that," he says.

"It's not a goddamn joke, Simon!" she yells. "I'm not a joke!"

Her voice reverberates through the room for a moment and they let the silence settle down around them. She's looking down at her plate, taking one breath at a time. He's staring at her; she can feel his eyes burning holes in her head.

"Paula," he says.

"This isn't working."

"What?" he asks.

"It's not, Simon," she says, looking up at him, tears in her eyes. "We're not working."

"I don't think..." he stops and thinks for a moment and changes tactics. "Did you think it was going to be easy?"

"I thought after seven years it couldn't get any harder," she says. "And I think I'm the reason you're so angry this season."

"That's not true," he says.

"Ever since we started this thing, you've been different."

"Different?" he asks. "Of course I've been different. You're not making me angry, Paula, you're the one thing that's keeping me here!"

"What?"

"You want to know the truth?" he asks. "I'm tired. I'm sick and tired of American Idol. I'm tired of listening to terrible auditions, I'm tired of bogging through Hollywood week, I'm tired listening to the same songs sung poorly at me over and over and I'm tired of handing the reigns over to this Godforsaken country so they can wrongly choose another mediocre pop star!"

"Oh," she whispers.

"And if you, the one good thing about all of this, if you decide that this isn't working then I swear to God, Paula, I swear to God I am going to leave and I won't look back," he bellows standing up. The chair goes flying back so far that it reaches the step down to the sunken living room and tips, falling loudly to its side. She jumps at the noise.

"You said," she says, clearing her throat. "You said on Larry King that we were all contracted for two years. You said maybe longer."

"I was lying," he says. "I lied in my interview like I was supposed to."

"I'm not leaving," she says, suddenly.

"You were just about to give up," he points out.

"I was," she admits. "But I'm not now."

He picks up the chair, rights it at the table, and sits down.

"Okay," he says.

"You told me once that you were ready to start dating someone your own age, remember?" she asks.

"Yeah, you were in a bathtub. I remember," he says.

"You meant me?"

"Yes," he says.

"Then you need to stop treating me like all your other girlfriends," she says. "I'm not Terri. I'm not twenty-five. I don't need your money. I'm not impressed by your fame."

"I know," he says.

"We're not playing house," she says.

"That was rude," he admits. They look at the table. "Dinner's cold."

"We're going to eat it anyway," she says. He takes a bite and she drinks her water and somehow they manage to get through the meal.

"I don't hate everything," he says, when they're cleaning up the meal. The serving platters have to be hand washed. She washes while he loads everything else into the dishwasher.

"You do make, like, thirty-two million dollars more than me a year working for American Idol," she points out.

"Besides the money," he says. "And besides you. There are other good things."

"Yes," she says. "Like when it works." She's talking about Kelly and Carrie. About Daughtry and Jennifer Hudson – about the stars they've helped create.

"Exactly," he says. When the kitchen is clean, she goes upstairs and lets him turn off all the lights and make sure the alarm is set and the doors are locked. She's already in bed when he comes in. He can't see what she's wearing, only a thin black strap across her shoulder and he's just glad it isn't an oversized t-shirt or a high-necked nightgown.

"Are you tired?" she asks.

"Not really," he says. He pulls off his shirt and sits on the edge of the bed next to her. She reaches out her bare arm to touch his chest. "You were about to throw in the towel on us down there," he brings up again.

"I'm sorry," she says, which isn't exactly a denial. "As you may have noticed, I'm not very good at long term relationships."

"Do you expect us to fail?" he asks. She bites her lip. "You can't run away every time things get hard, darling."

"Setting aside the fact that you, alternatively, decided to stay for six years in a doomed relationship, setting aside that fact completely, what do you know about my previous relationships?" she asks, pulling her arm away. He hangs his head – she's wearing a slinky black thing and somehow they are fighting again.

"Colt, Dante, J.T. – I've seen a lot of them," he says.

"I don't mean them," she says. "I mean my marriages. You don't know anything about that."

"Because you won't tell me!" he says. "All I know is their names and the fact that both imploded around two years. And two years hardly seems like giving it a fair go."

"Screw you," she says, throwing back the covers and getting out of the bed. He groans – there it is, slinky, black, see-through and probably out of his reach forever. She puts on her robe, tying the sash angrily.

"What?" he asks. "How am I supposed to know?"

"You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you. My first husband and I never saw one another. I was on tour, he was filming movies, and when I brought up children, he brought up divorce lawyers. And my second husband? Everything was perfect until he started using my face as his punching bag. Sorry I didn't stick that one out, DR. PHIL," she screams and then turns around and goes into the bathroom. She slams the door, flips the lock and he hears the shower come on.

But it doesn't quite muffle the sound of her tears.

"Shit," he says into the now empty bedroom.


	14. Chapter 14

After twenty minutes of knocking, Simon picks the bathroom lock. It's like riding a bicycle, delving back into his delinquent youth. All it takes is a hairpin and some fancy wrist work and the lock pops. He opens the door carefully. He'd warned her already that he was coming in whether she liked it or not, but she still looks surprised and vaguely impressed when he comes in. She's sitting on the closed toilet. She'd turned off the shower already – no use to let it run when they both know she isn't in it.

Her face is wet, her make up streaked down her cheeks. She looks small, curled in on her self, her feet pigeon-toed to keep her balance.

"Get out," she says but she doesn't mean it.

"Look," he says. "We need to get out of here."

"You need to get out of here," she says.

"I don't mean the bathroom," he corrects. "I mean L.A."

She's about to argue; he can see her lips forming an perfect 'o' but something stops her and he thinks it's the realization that he's right.

"Because," he continues, "We need some us time or we're going to implode."

"Okay," she says.

"No argument?" he asks. "No recital of your schedule, no checking with your entourage?"

"Nope," she says. "I tell you what, you arrange it and I'll show up." She dabs at her eyes with toilet paper and lets out a watery sigh. "I'm tired, can we finish this in the morning?"

"Sure," he says. "You want me to go home?"

"Yes," she says. "No. No, I don't."

"Um?" he scratches his head.

"Stay," she says.

"I will," he says. "I'm gonna go have a pint I think. Go to sleep. I'll be up in a bit." She watches him head downstairs. It's relieving, actually, getting into an empty bed and reaching across no one to turn off the lamp on the nightstand. She moves to the middle of the mattress and takes his pillow as well as hers and stacks them comfortably beneath her.

By the time Simon comes back up, she's deeply asleep, sprawled out across the bed. He isn't sure how such a small woman takes up so much space but he literally cannot figure out how he's supposed to get on the bed without waking her. And he isn't going to wake her because he's not an idiot.

He goes to the office and calls his secretary, Bea, who has been living in his house for the last few days while her floors were being redone and he wasn't there anyway.

"It's 2am," she says, sleep evident in her voice.

"Yeah," he says. "I need some things and I'd like them by morning."

"Okay," she says. "Let me get a pen."

"I need you to clear my schedule for three days. I need you to call Pam and clear Paula's schedule for three days. I need you to have the SUV serviced and ready by 9:00am tomorrow. I want you to book a hotel room somewhere far enough that we need to drive for several hours but close enough that we don't cross any borders. I want it to be pretty and quiet and extremely expensive," he says.

"Okay," she says. "By tomorrow?"

"Yes," he says.

"I'm going to need to hang up now, sir, then," she says. He chuckles.

"Okay," he says. "Call me when you have details. I'm sleeping on the couch anyway."

"Yes, sir," she says.

In the morning, Paula wakes him up with a cup of coffee. It's early, not yet seven am.

"You didn't come to bed," she says while he sits up enough to drink the coffee and then sets it back on the coffee table and slumps back down.

"I did," he says. "But you were all..." He waves his hands all around.

"It's okay," she says. "Sometimes I sprawl."

"Exactly," he says.

"Pam's on her way," Paula says, keeping her conversational tone.

"It's the crack of dawn!"

"She's coming to help me pack," Paula says. "Imagine my surprise."

"Oh yeah," he says, a boyish grin spreading across his face.

"Simon!" she says.

"You agreed," he pointed out. "You said you'd go if I took care of everything."

"I just thought it would be, you know, in a week."

"Now," he says. "Today."

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"I'm not quite sure," he says. "But I should probably go home and pack as well."

"You have plenty of clothes here," she points out.

"I also want to take the SUV," he says.

"We're driving?" she asks. He nods. "Well," she says, sounding a little unconvinced. "You have to have me back by Monday morning."

"Okay," he says. "Why?"

"I'm going to Nashville, I told you," she says.

"Right, for the hick awards."

"For the CMTs," she corrects. "Do you know how many Idol alum will be there?"

"Okay, okay. You'll be back in time," he promises.

He drinks his coffee and leaves before Pam arrives. When he gets home, Bea meets him in the living room with a big, yellow envelope filled with his travel documents and reservations. The SUV sits sparkling in the driveway, ready to go. Bea looks tired; her gray hair is in a long braid over her shoulder instead of in the prim up-do he usually sees. Bea is a transplant, like him. British but living in America part time because he asked her to and she doesn't complain about it. She has no children and a husband who is ten years older than she is and living comfortably alone in Hertfordshire.

"He can come with you," Simon had said of her husband but Bea had waved the notion away, seemingly happy with the distance. Simon rented a one-story house for Bea in L.A. proper and a driver for her so she didn't have to learn to navigate the wrong side of the road.

Now, he takes the documents and grins at her.

"How on earth did you get the car done so early?" Simon asks.

"My nephew is a mechanic," she says. "He lives here, too."

"Brilliant," he says. "You're an angel."

Bea returns to her room, possibly to go back to sleep, and Simon fills a black, rolling suitcase with jeans and sweaters, a few t-shirts, and after only a moments hesitation, swimming trunks. He probably won't wear them, it's only April, but better safe than sorry. He showers and shaves and eats a banana before putting the suitcase in the car and heading back to Paula's house. He sits in some traffic and hopes the delay means she'll be ready when he gets there.

It's a pipe dream, really.

She isn't even out of her bathrobe. She has her large Louis Vuitton suitcase open on the bed and he startles them when he comes in.

"For the love of God, Paula, it's three days!"

"Well!" she says. "You haven't told me where we're going. I have no idea how to pack or what for."

"We have a long drive and if I tell you it will ruin the surprise," he says. "Look, you don't need a ball gown for one. We're going to the country."

"Ooh," says Pam, dreamily. "The country."

"The country, like, Laguna Beach or the country, like, Bakersfield," she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"The country, like, neither," he says, mimicking her. "I know you're a girl from the valley but try to think outside the box a little."

"But!"

"JUST PACK," he says. "Just pack."

He wanted to be on the road by 9:00 but it's 9:45 by the time she buckles herself in having kissed all her dogs goodbye gratuitously. Simon pulls out of the driveway quickly before she can think of something she forgot and exit the car, never to return.

She's feeling rather trusting of him. Letting him take her off into the sunset, into the great unknown. But Paula knows this isn't the end and it's not the sunset they're riding into. They're going off somewhere to try to fix things. It's not that things are bad, but she knows that there is some loose end somewhere, floating in the wind and they need to find it and tie it down.

Simon gets onto the 5, heading north.

"How north?" she asks.

"Neither of us slept very well," he says. "Are you tired? You could go to sleep. I wouldn't mind." She tries not to feel like he's dismissing her – this is just his caustic way of telling the truth. It's his way of not answering her question. He's not going to hurt her or kidnap her or take her someplace that is so far removed from society that they disappear never to be seen again. He's doing this for her, this vacation, getting out of L.A. and spending time together, just the two of them.

"Maybe," she says. The radio has traffic news on and she opens the glove box to retrieve the small CD book that travels with him. He has a larger one, usually, filled with demos of perspective artists or unfinished cuts of songs, but this little one is his personal collection. It's filled with The Beatles, his successful artists and, as she sees flipping through, a copy of her first CD. "Is this a joke?" she asks, holding up the disc. It catches the light and he squints when he glances at it.

"Which?"

"Forever Your Girl," she says.

"You're not a joke," he reminds her.

"But you don't like my music," she says.

"I like you," he says. "And that was a very successful record. So."

"You're crazy," she says, slipping it back into the sleeve. She doesn't want to listen to it – she never wants to hear herself sing. She's never been able to listen without cringing, without focusing on every little flaw, every less than stellar note. Every dated sounding track. Instead, she puts on a CD that says only 'Simon's Mix.' There were a couple CDs with Terri's handwriting but this is Simon's spiky hand and she's curious as to what his favorite songs might be. Whenever they listen to music it's because she initiates it. Her radio, her ipod, her itunes playing in an endless loop on her laptop. She's always dancing around to music when they're at her house and always humming to herself when they're at his.

She doesn't recognize the first song, the smoky sounding singer or the notes that the guitar plunks out. She doesn't ask for the artist, for the song or the record company. She just puts her head back and lets the soothing music lull her into sleep. Simon, who almost never acknowledges the music she plays, hums along beside her, his fingers tapping out a gentle rhythm on the steering wheel.

When she wakes up, it is because there is a movement in the direction of the car. Simon is pulling off the freeway, flicking on the turn signal to turn toward an oasis of gas stations and fast food restaurants. Paula can recognize the 5, the long, endless highway that connects the two halves of California.

"We need petrol," he says, and pulls into a Shell station. "Do you want anything? Something to drink? The bathroom?"

She feels a little foggy from just waking up.

"I'll come," she says, undoing her seatbelt. Simon raises his eyebrows but says nothing. She doesn't usually like to go out in public without her assistants. He'll see pictures of her sometimes, in the magazines that lay carelessly around her den, of her lunching at various L.A. hotspots but he almost never sees pictures of her at the gas station or the grocery store. She doesn't go out unannounced, doesn't like to be blindsided by her fans. He understands this better now – she's small and has a not wholly irrational fear of men hitting her.

She stays close to him, close enough that their arms brush when they walk. They're both in sunglasses and in, for television personalities, pretty unassuming outfits. Maybe if they were by themselves they'd be able to retain some privacy but they're so recognizable standing next to one another that immediately, heads begin to turn. When they enter the food mart, a girl in a UCLA sweatshirt lets out a strangled noise of excitement. She's pretty – even in yoga pants and with messy hair and Simon might have, at one time in his life, given her a smile and a wink, but now he just turns his back on her and looks down at Paula.

"I have to," she says, motioning toward the restroom. He nods and stands outside the door while she's inside, arms crossed and making sure no one goes in even though there is two stalls. When she comes out, she picks out two water bottles and two cans of sugar-free Redbull and he helps her carry them to the counter. The bored clerk perks up at the sight of them.

Simon hands him a fifty-dollar bill.

"These, and the rest on number four," he says, evenly.

"You know, you guys look just like..." the cashier says, taking the money.

"We're impersonators," Paula says, without missing a beat.

"Oh," the cashier says, uncertainly. "That makes sense." Simon takes his change and the Redbull and Paula takes the water and they go to the car.

"That was brilliant," he says. "A total lie, but brilliant."

"I find people are more apt to believe you if you admit to something rather than denying something," she says, shrugging.

"I'll have to remember that," he says. She gets into the car while he pumps the gas. The girl in the UCLA sweatshirt idles in her car while Simon gets back in and buckles her seatbelt. When they pull out of the parking lot, she follows and Paula is relieved when Simon pulls onto the north bound on-ramp and the girl heads for the south.

"I should have offered to drive," she says. She opens a bottle of water and hands it to him.

"I'll let you know if I get tired," he says, and takes a drink. She takes the bottle when he hands it out and replaces the cap; sets it into the cup holder. One time, he'd replaced her diet coke in her red cup, on air, with what tasted like a mixture of Dr. Pepper, coffee, and what she pretty sure was shoe polish. She'd spit it across the table and the only reason she hadn't killed him later was because it was during a commercial break.

That's when she'd switched to Redbull – she didn't trust brown liquid in red cups any longer.

Highway 5 is, without argument, the most boring road in the state of California. Two lanes in either direction and miles and miles of not very much at all. There are fields of crop – California's agriculture gets eclipsed by Hollywood but as she watches fields of soybeans fly past her, she remembers that California isn't just Hollywood.

"Where are we going?" she asks, pressing her hand against the glass of her tinted window. There are figures hunched over in the fields, migrant workers with t-shirts tied on their heads to protect their neck from the sun.

"To where they make wine," Simon says, abandoning the secret. "Bea said it's supposed to be pretty this time of year. The vineyards, I think. Green leaves and such."

"Napa?" she asks.

"No," he says. "There are papers in the back."

"It doesn't matter where, exactly," she says. "I'm just glad to be going somewhere."

He smiles at this. Simon's CD has played through a couple times now. She'd slept through most of the rotations but now is awake and turns the volume knob so it gets louder. She rests her bare feet on the dashboard so the sun warms them. Simon likes to crank the air conditioning and while it is warm out, she's a lot smaller than him and the cold air blowing on her feet was too much.

They don't hit traffic until they veer off the 5 onto the 580 and head into Oakland during the evening. Simon has a California atlas under the seat and asks Paula to pull it out and make sure he's on the right track. She opens the map and then pulls a pair of reading glasses out of her purse and sets them onto her nose.

"I've never seen you in those," he says, delightedly, glancing at the tortoise shell frames.

"I don't wear them on camera," she says. "But I'm old and these lines are small."

"Guess I've never seen you read anything, either," he says, teasingly. She rolls her eyes.

"Just stay on the 580 until you hit 101, smartass," she says, and closes the atlas. She tosses it into the backseat.

"I think they're sexy," he says. She pushes them up onto her head.

"It's not the glasses, it's me," she says. He brakes hard in the Oakland commute traffic and sighs. She takes a moment to look around – it's pretty and desolate somehow at the same time. There are rolling green hills dotted with dilapidated buildings. The cars around them are much more varied than in L.A. – she's used to either luxury cars or old wrecks but here there is a lot more varieties. There are beat up Hondas, Lexus SUVs, big trucks with big tires, Subarus with bicycles mounted to the tops and dogs riding in the back, their tails wagging and noses against the glass.

"I feel like we see lots of places when we go on auditions, but we don't really, do we?" she asks.

"No," he says. "I doubt that we do."

"Will it be quiet where we're going?" she asks.

"Yes," he promises. "We don't even have to leave the room if you don't want to."

"Good," she says, "I hope we can see the stars."

He realizes that she needs this much more than he does and much more than he though she did. He's not shy about taking vacations – he and Terri have jetted all over the world together at a moment's notice. But Paula almost never takes time for herself. Every vacation is paired with work somehow – like having auditions in Hawaii or when she came to London to visit and did Friday Night Project as well as a handful of other shows and press. Three days isn't very long but it's going to have to be enough for now.

Bea had booked them both a few hours in a spa in the morning and he hasn't told her yet. He wants the whole weekend to be relaxing for her.

Once they hit the 101 North, Simon had high hopes that traffic would subside but it was not to be so. There is construction and everyone heading toward 101 is funneled into one lane and Paula can see that Simon is getting angry.

"I'll drive," she says. "I don't mind traffic."

"I just want to be there," he says.

"We're getting there," she says. "This is a long time in the car though."

"I know," he says. "But I really wanted to avoid the press. I didn't want pictures of us at LAX anywhere."

The sun had just about set and the sky above them was turning purple. It will be night soon and Paula pulls open the cover to the sunroof so she can see out of the glass. No stars yet, but they have high hopes. They drive through quaint sounding towns – Marin, Novato, Cotati. Santa Rosa is the big city of the North Bay but it's not really a city at all but a sprawling town. Once they get out of the Santa Rosa city limits, the traffic all but disappears.

Paula begins to feel like she's really in the country. It's so dark that she can't really make out what they're driving past and wishes it were daytime. When they reach the exit for central Healdsburg, Simon takes it and Paula perks up, excited. Simon must have memorized the turns he needs to take because he doesn't ask her to consult the map again or to dig around in the big envelope for directions printed off the Internet by Bea. He drives up a long gravel driveway to a dark house, large with a porch the wraps around. She can't see the sign, can't see exactly where it is where they're staying and sits in the car, listening to the engine tick and moan while Simon walks around to open the door for her.

Her feet feel numb and her knees wobbly from staying in one position too long as she tries to navigate the gravel in her high heels. It's dark and she can see the stars through the branches of the surrounding Oak trees. It's cold too, much colder than April in southern California. Bugs chirp in the distance and Simon leaves the luggage in the car, for now. There are a few other cars, but not many. Simon holds open the door for her and they step into the lobby. A tired looking woman sits behind the desk, looking into the computer monitor with a bored expression. It's clear that she is waiting for them, making an exception for their late arrival because they are celebrities. They might have made it before nightfall if not for stopping for lunch and more than a handful of bathroom breaks – if not for the commute traffic they sat in for an extra hour.

"Hello," Simon says. The woman looks up and forces a smile.

"Welcome to the manor," she says.

"Yes," Simon says. "Sorry we're late. I believe my assistant made the reservation under my name," he says, walking up to the desk. "Cowell," he adds, unnecessarily.

"Of course," she says. "We're so happy to have you." She slides a sheet of paper across the counter to him and he glances at it for a moment and signs his name.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Margaret," she says.

"And you're the owner?" Simon asks, glancing back at Paula. She's has sat down on one of the couches in the waiting area and is watching the exchange between Simon and Margaret with some interest.

"My husband and I, yes," Margaret says.

"My assistant spoke to you then, about speaking to the press?" Simon asks.

"It's not our policy to discuss our guests," Margaret says. Simon smiles.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're in the Garden Cottage," Margaret says, reaching for a key hanging from a wall of hooks. The Garden Cottage was the most private room available. In fact, it wasn't a room in the main house, but a structure off to the side with it's own bathroom and mini kitchen, a sitting room, and a large, king sized bed. There were doors that opened to the back, giving them views of the garden and the vineyards that covered the hills in the distance.

Of course, the view was rather lost in the darkness when Simon and Paula finally enter their room, their suitcases rolling behind them.

"I can't remember the last time I carried my own suitcase to my room," Paula says, struggling for a moment to get the wheels to roll over the threshold.

"Woe is you," says Simon, running his hand along the wall for the light switch.

"No, I mean, it's good," Paula says. "It means we really are out in the boonies."

"I doubt the nice people of Healdsburg would appreciate you calling their town the boonies," he says, surveying the very floral room in front of him.

"Why are you trying to pick a fight?" she asks, softly.

"I... I have no idea. I'm sorry," he says. "I'll stop."

"Thank you," she murmurs, looking around. Everything is sort of floral, country rose with bright walls and expensive wooden furniture. "I like this."

"Good," he says. "They're supposed to, I mean, I'm pretty sure Bea arranged for dinner."

"Okay," she says. "I think I'm going to take a shower in the meantime."

"Sure," he says, discovering the television hidden in the cupboard opposite the bed. He's still searching for the remote when she takes her toiletry bag to the bathroom. There is a huge tub that Paula has great plans for later, but right now she just wants to stand under the hot spray. The shower is clean, with coral colored tiles and is a decent size for not being attached to the tub. The shower also had clear, clean doors in lieu of a shower curtain or something more private so if Simon comes in, he's going to get an eyeful. Nothing he hasn't seen before, but still.

Paula secretly loves other people's showers. Even in hotels, there is something about taking a shower in a new place that just thrills her. The water pressure is different; the light comes in at new and interesting angles. She lines up her body wash and shampoo just so along the shelf that juts out from the corner by the fixtures. She lays out the bathmat on the floor and leans against the counter to kick off her shoes. Her clothes come off next, folded to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. She should really wash her face before getting in, but she doesn't. She turns on the water hot, too hot for Simon anyway, and lets the spray relax her. Steam fills the room.

She stays in too long and when she comes out in her robe with a towel around her hair, her dinner has gotten a little cold. They eat and watch the news – the Lakers are out of the playoffs but the Angels won and the Dodgers lost.

"Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim," Paula mutters, still bitter. "Get out of my city."

Simon, who doesn't care about baseball or American sports in the slightest, doesn't respond. Instead he tugs at the towel around her hair and pulls it away, letting her wet hair fall down around her shoulders. He turns off the TV and looks at her with a warm gaze.

"Are you naked under that robe?" he asks. She rolls her eyes.

"Are you naked under your clothes?" she shoots back.

"In fact I am," he says. "What if you took off your robe and I took off my clothes?"

"Then we'd both just be naked," she points out. "And maybe a little cold."

"Well," he says. "What about the bed?"

She laughs and crawls across the mattress into his lap. She kisses his cheek, his chin, his neck again and again; she showers him with kisses and he holds her close.

He pulls back the linens and takes off his clothes down to his boxers and slides in. She likes to push down his shorts, he's figured out, so he leaves them on for her to unwrap later. She sheds her robe and he enjoys the brief view he gets before she crawls in next to him. She's in pretty amazing shape still and it's boggling. Terri, a model, had been given her body as a gift from God. She's rarely worked out, she hated to run, she complained about how many stairs he had in the house. And, as she started to exit her twenties, her body, while still lithe and thin, had started to soften from the lack of exercise.

But Paula, decades older, works for her figure and it's obvious and appreciated.

His hands are cool against her shower-warmed skin but she doesn't mind. Frankly, it's nice to have hot, passionate sex with him without having a fight first. She clutches at the headboard, trying to keep herself and the bed still but it's no use and she's glad they're not in the main house because Simon groans loudly and collapses down on top her, his face sweaty against her cheek. She rubs his back and kisses his temple. The lights in the bedroom are off but she accidentally left the light in the bathroom on so she can see him, his rapid breathing shaking his whole body.

"You okay?" she breathes, feeling a little crushed but not asking him to move.

"Yeah," he breathes. "You're just... I... you..."

She laughs.

"I really like you," he manages. "A lot."

"I guess that's good," she says, now nudging him a little so he rolls over and lets her breathe. "I like you too."

"Really?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. "I do."

When he dozes off, she turns out the light in the bathroom and gets back into bed. They fall asleep quickly and deeply.


	15. Chapter 15

Paula wakes up suddenly and uncomfortably to her own song. She's confused for a minute – it's dark and she knows Simon is beside her but where are they? And why is her and Randy's song playing loudly at, she checks the clock, four in the morning? Simon slogs to consciousness a little more slowly than she does.

"Simon," she says, shaking his shoulder.

"It's my phone," he mumbles, reaching for the device on the floor where he'd plugged it in to the wall while she was showering.

"Your phone rings me?" she asks.

"It does when you call me from your land line," he says, showing her the screen. It says, 'Paula's house' and he shrugs and answers it. Paula knows who it must be – either Kylie, Daniel, or Pam stay at her house while she's gone for more than a day. But why are they calling Simon?

"Hello?" he says. "Hi Pam. Yeah, it's all right. What's wrong?" She strains to hear, holding the sheet up to her chest. He leans over and turns on the lamp on the bedside table. "She's right here," he says and puts his hand over the phone.

"What?" she asks.

"Pam wants to talk to you. Says she's been trying to call but your phone is going straight to voicemail?" He hands her his phone.

"I forgot to plug it in," she says. "Hello?"

"Sorry, Paula," Pam says. "I'm going to patch you through to your sister, okay? She's been calling."

"Wendy?" Paula asks, rubbing her face. Her brain is only working at half speed and she wants to know why this can't wait until morning. "Okay." She hears a couple clicks and then:

"Paula?" Wendy sounds tired and scared and it suddenly clicks – phone calls in the middle of the night mean bad news and her chest feels tight.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"I..." Wendy falters, and then stalls. "Where are you?"

"Simon and I went out of town. What's going on?" Paula pushes.

"You didn't tell me you were leaving," Wendy accuses.

"Wen!"

"Okay. I'm at the hospital, Paula. Dad had a stroke."

"Oh my God," she says, her hand covering her mouth. Simon looks on, concerned. "Is he okay?"

"He's okay," Wendy says. "He's sleeping right now. The doctor said it was mild? I don't really know. We won't know more until he wakes up."

"Okay, I'm coming home," Paula says, pushing back the covers and getting out of bed.

"You don't have to leave your vacation," Wendy says, but sounds relieved all the same.

"Cedars-Sinai?" Paula asks.

"Yeah," Wendy says.

"I'll call you when I'm back in L.A." she promises and hangs up. She looks at Simon. "Daddy had a stroke," she says and dissolves into tears.

Pam books them on the first flight out of Oakland airport.

"What about the car?" Paula asks, zipping up her suitcase and looking around the room they barely got to enjoy.

"I'll leave it in long term parking and have someone fly up and drive it home," he says. "Don't worry about the car, Paula."

"Okay," she says. She puts her suitcase in the car while Simon goes in and settles the bill. He pays for the entire weekend, he does not argue; he apologizes profusely.

"Was something wrong?" Margaret asks, sliding his credit card through her machine.

"It was wonderful," he says, looking and sounding exhausted. "Outside circumstances." He thinks that she'll read about it later in a magazine and understand their hasty departure. In the car, this time, Paula doesn't even offer to drive. She plugs her phone charger into the cigarette lighter and it comes alive, beeping with missed calls and voice messages.

"I'm going to call my mom," she says.

"Go ahead, babe," he says. "Do what you need to do."

Inside, he tries not to feel disappointed. If their positions were switched, he knows she wouldn't blame him for leaving early, for flying back to England to be with his mother or siblings or whoever, God forbid. He only half listens to Paula's teary conversation with her mother. He knows she's been worried about her dad since their big fight in her dressing room, since she asked about his own father's death so suddenly.

It's early enough that there isn't any traffic to speak of and when they get to the airport, he drops her off to wait in the terminal while he parks the car. Pam got them first class so they can wait in the lounge for the flight. Paula just can't sit still. She paces the perimeter of the room, stopping only briefly at the windows to check for their plane at the gate.

He's tired, they both are, so he finds the Starbuck's and buys them both muffins and coffee. She takes the coffee and doesn't even pick at the muffin. He eats his and tucks hers away in his carry on. She might want it later.

"Mild is not bad, right?" he says, trying to calm her when she finally sits down next to him.

"It's all bad," she says. "Any amount is bad."

She practically mows down the flight attendant when they let them board the plane. Simon apologizes and helps Paula into her seat, tucking her bag into the overhead and prying her phone from her hand so he can shut the device off.

"It's only an hour," he says. "We'll be there in no time. Someone is going to meet us at the airport and we're gonna go straight there."

"I know," she says. She knows the plan but still, an hour is forever right now. Each minute is a minute less that she has with her father. She feels guilty for being so far away, selfish for wanting to have time alone with Simon. Simon, who is sitting next to her, holding her hand and generally just being amazing.

Her fear is fueled by adrenaline right now and once the plane is in the air, her body understands that she isn't going anywhere for a moment and she feels tired. She puts her head against his shoulder, turns down any beverage, snack, hot towel. She will not be soothed by material things. Simon pats a little rhythm on her thigh, like a beating heart.

"If you sleep, I'll not tell a soul," he says.

"I can't," she whispers. "Oh God, Si, what if he had died and I'd been away?"

"He didn't," Simon says. "You weren't."

"But what if..."

"Don't torture yourself," he says. "Wendy's with him and you're on your way."

"Okay," she says. "I need to talk about something else."

"Anything," he says, indulgently.

"I'm really sorry about the trip," she says. "I really wanted to stay. I wanted to spend the weekend with you."

"We'll do it again," he says. "Well do it with more planning somewhere much more exotic for longer."

"And we still have London, in the summer," she says. "Right?"

"Right," he promises.

"What were we going to do this weekend," she asks.

"Besides the loads and loads of shagging?" he asks, playfully.

"Besides that."

"Well," he says. "In the morning, which I suppose is now, we were to go to a spa to get cedar baths."

"Cedar?" she asks.

"Apparently it's better than mud. So, yes, a cedar bath and then massages and whatever else your little heart desired."

"Aww," she says.

"And then tonight, we had the private room at the French Laundry reserved," he says. "Do you know about that?"

She shakes her head no.

"It has three Michelin stars. One of the highest rated restaurants in the country. You get several courses; it takes hours. Reservations are made at least two months in advance but not for you, my love. For you no notice is required," he says. She smiles when he calls her 'love' even though she knows that it's a British term of endearment. She's just happy he used it on her.

"That sounds nice," she says. "What else?"

"In the morning, after a enormous dinner, I thought we'd go for a run," he says. "There are vineyards on the property of Madrona Manor, and I thought we might jog through one of them. We could see the new growth of grapes on the vine – see what all the fuss is about?"

"And then?" she prods, getting briefly lost in the fantasy.

"And then we had a rented limo to take us around to several wineries," he says.

"You know I don't drink anymore," she says.

"I've noticed that," he says. He used to be able to slip half a glass of wine down her, or the occasional cocktail when they were alone but now she turns every drop of alcohol down resolutely. He can't help but feel partly responsible for that but he doesn't want to dwell on that now. "But, some of the wineries are housed in beautiful buildings."

"Oh," she says.

"One has a whole field of lavender," Simon says. "In the summer they harvest it all to manufacture bath oils with but now, it's just a sea of purple, like an ocean."

"How do you know all this?" she asks, skeptical.

"I read the brochures Bea sent," he says. She leans against him, pushing up the arm between their seats so she can fit more securely into his side.

"Another time," she murmurs, her lips moving against his sleeve.

"We have all the time in the world," he promises, hoping that it's true.

Austin picks them up from the airport in Wendy's old hatchback. He glances at Simon but doesn't comment; his face pulled tight and even. He gets out and helps Simon load their suitcases into the trunk. Paula puts her arm around Austin's neck and kisses him right on the mouth.

"Hi baby," Paula says and Austin hugs her back, hard and long, the kind of hug he hasn't given her since he hit puberty. Family becomes all the more important when a member is threatened and it's a lesson Austin and Alex are learning the hard way now.

"Hi Auntie," he says. Simon sits in the back, letting Paula ride up front with her nephew. She pulls up her seat in jerky motions, holding the bar underneath and trying to throw her weight forward at the same time. Beside Simon on the seat are a couple of textbooks – Biology, Psychology, and one of Romantic Literature. When Austin makes the loop out of LAX onto the freeway, the books slide across the upholstery and into Simon's leg. Simon glances at them and then moves them silently to the floor behind Austin's seat.

It occurs to him that, as successful as he is – while he is possibly the most famous person in the car, he is not the smartest. He is, what the Americans call, a high school drop out. He's never owned a thick textbook like the ones near his feet, let alone ever read one. He couldn't tell you the difference between veins and arteries, couldn't expound on a Wordsworth poem, couldn't tell you why the brain does what it does when it does it.

They're quiet, up in the front seats, but Paula rests her hand on top of Austin's on the gearshift, moving when he moves to speed up or slow down. It makes Simon miss his mother. He hasn't talked to her very much lately, hasn't told her about Paula though of course she knows. She knows the way mothers always know about their sons. She can hear it in his voice; hear it in everything he doesn't say. Between every word she can hear his love, in every beat, every inflection in her son's speech she can hear the name of another woman, slowly unfurling inside his heart, opening wide and bright like flowers in the spring.

He reaches up and touches Paula's shoulder, but she pushes his hand away because she doesn't want to cry in front of Austin and Simon's kindness has always been her last straw.

Austin knows exactly where he's going when he pulls into the parking garage at the hospital. The windows aren't even tinted in Wendy's car and both Paula and Simon slump down in their seats instinctively.

"They're letting us come in the back," Austin says, sounding world-weary. "It actually is underground, the entrance. There haven't been reporters or anything, but mom wants to be careful."

"She's right," Simon says. "The longer we can keep your family business out of the papers, the better."

"I want to keep it out all together," Austin says. Paula looks at Simon in the wing mirror and they exchange a glance. Austin is being naïve – it will make the tabloids, it's just a matter of when. But neither correct the boy.

"I'm sorry," Paula says instead. "It's hard for the family."

"It happens," Simon says.

"Not daddy," Paula says. "Me. I'm hard on the family, I know."

And what is there to say to that? Not a thing.

Inside the hospital, Paula's heels click loudly on the floor as she and Simon follow Austin through the hospital. Simon has met Paula's nephews only briefly and superficially at various tapings and Idol events throughout the years, but the car ride with Austin is by far the longest amount of time that he has spent with either of them. Still, he recognizes Alex standing outside of the hospital room, his fingers flying over the keypad of his cell phone, deep in text. He looks up, sensing their approach and tucks the phone away.

"Hi baby," Paula repeats, kissing both cheeks of her youngest nephew. Alex smiles, but it's a tight-lipped smile.

"Mom's inside," he says. Paula hands Simon her large handbag and goes right into the room, letting the door close behind her. Austin and Alex stare at him and he looks down at the shiny black purse now solely in his care.

"Well," says Alex. "At least it goes with your outfit."

Austin elbows him.

"Don't," he mutters to his brother but Simon laughs, a little tired and a little off kilter.

"It was funny," he promises.

"He's fine," Alex announces, and Simon doesn't know if it's for his benefit or his brothers. "He's already asking to go home."

"How is his speech?" Simon asks. Alex shrugs.

"Same," he says. Simon looks at the closed door.

On the other side, Paula perches on the edge of her father's bed.

"I'm fine!" Harry says, exasperated. He looks okay, good color if a little tired. His heart monitor beeps out a steady and strong rhythm and he doesn't even have an oxygen mask or any tubes except for one IV in his left arm. It drips every few seconds and Paula thinks she can hear the liquid fall into the chamber but she can't, really.

"You're in the hospital, daddy," Paula says, patiently. But he really does look fine. She doesn't know what she expected, but him sitting up, arguing with her was not it and now that she sees him like this, still her dad but in a scary setting, it's not so bad.

"I know," he says. "But I'm okay."

She reaches out her hand to touch his aging, sagging face. Wendy looks on from the corner of the room, tired, hungry, and feeling awfully alone.

Paula tells Simon he can go home but he stays until she does. He sits out in the waiting area with the boys who go in periodically. Simon stays in his chair, texting Bea to let her know of the changes, to let her know that they won't be gone, after all. Eventually, Paula comes out and sits wearily into the chair next to him.

"Hello," he says.

"Hi," she responds. "He wants to see you."

"What?" he asks.

"My dad wants to see you."

"Did you tell him I was here?" Simon asks, surprised.

"Of course," she says. When he stands, Paula does not rise with him. "Just you," she adds.

"Lord," he murmurs but walks past her, past Wendy and Austin, past Alex who is leaning against the soda machine, trying to make a choice with a handful of crumpled dollar bills. He knocks lightly before letting himself in. Visiting hours are just about over and Paula's father looks tired, but for the most part, all right.

"Come in," he says and Simon shuts the door behind himself. The window outside shows a darkening purple sky and there are a few lamps on, instead of the buzzing florescent light overhead. Simon stands in darkness while Harry is bathed in warm, orange light.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" he says, feeling young and inexperienced in the face of his woman's father.

"Paula said you were here," he says. "I didn't know."

"Ah, yes," Simon says, sitting carefully in the chair next to the bed. "We were on... we were together when Wendy... yes. I've been here."

"Mr. Cowell," he says. "I think we both know that my daughters don't have the best luck in love."

"I, ah," he says, scratching his head.

"Wendy lost her husband in a car crash when the boys were little. And Paula, well, you know," he says.

"Yes sir," Simon says, wondering where this is going.

"I just, before I go, I want to know that my girls are taken care of," Harry says.

"From what I understand you aren't going anywhere for a long time," Simon says.

"For now," Harry corrects. "But you never know."

"Well, I can't tell you anything about Wendy but consider Paula safe and sound for the rest of her life," says Simon. Harry smiles at him.

"It's all I wanted to know," Harry says. "It's late and Paula is tired. Why don't you take her home for the night?"

"Of course," Simon says. "You feel better."

Simon lets himself out of the room. Paula is slumped in her chair, her chin resting on her hand. Her eyes are closed, her lashes resting on her cheeks.

"Darling," he says. "Your father is going to sleep. Let's go."

"We don't have a car," she says. "I sent the boys home with my sister."

"We'll take a cab," he says. She stares at him. "Okay, I'll call Ryan."

"Ryan?" she asks.

"Yeah," Simon says, running with the idea. "This way we can tell him what happened. And if he finds out another way, he won't announce it to the world on the radio or TV without our consent." He reaches for his phone.

"Please," she says. "I should do it." Simon agrees.

Ryan comes into the hospital waiting area looking a little tired but game. He hugs Paula, offers his condolences but she waves it off. Ryan apologizing makes it sound like her father has died, and he hasn't so she just wants to move forward.

"Thank you for this," Simon says. Ryan looks slightly shocked but doesn't say anything. Being with Paula has made him a little bit softer. Not on camera and not usually to Ryan, but overall.

"We just want to keep it out of the news," Paula says.

"I brought the Denali," Ryan says. "No one could see me come in and no one will see you go out."

They have to trust him or arrange something else. Ryan is, all in all, a fairly trustworthy man considering that he is the voice of the entertainment industry. The SUV is running in the underground parking lot, the engine rumbling. The sound echoes all round the concrete garage. In the driver's seat sits Ryan's driver, Leo, but when he sees them approaching, he hops out to open the door for Paula.

"Good evening, Ms. Abdul," he says, while she slides in.

"Thank you," she says. Simon climbs in after her and Ryan squeezes in the back so they're not easily seen through the windshield. Paula is tired and rests her head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her and tucks her against him, shielding her from anyone with a long lens by hiding her face in his chest. Ryan slides on a pair of sunglasses. Simon really wants to crack the window and smoke a cigarette but he doesn't. They hit the freeway with little fanfare and only then does Simon relax.

"So," Ryan says.

"She's sleeping," Simon says, softly. He can feel her steady breathing; her body slumped against his.

"God you have it bad for her," Ryan teases, lowering his voice accordingly.

"Don't you?" Simon says. "Doesn't America?"

"Well," Ryan says. "She doesn't love the rest of us back."

"We haven't said that yet," Simon admits. "Maybe we never will."

"It's just a word," Ryan says. "It's not that you say it, it's that you act it."

"When did you get insightful?" Simon asks. Ryan shrugs.

"I'm smart," he says. "I just play dumb."

"You don't," Simon says. "You play it just right."

"You two need some time alone?" Paula murmurs, her words muffled by Simon's chest.

"What'd she say?" Ryan asks.

"She said that I was handsome and you only look worse when you stand next to me," Simon says.

"I did not!" Paula says, more clearly.

"She said, even that you're totally gay for me, you can't have me," Simon says.

"That's what I said," Paula says, sitting up a little. "Verbatim."

"I thought you were sleeping," Ryan says.

"I was, a little." She rubs at her neck. She woke up when the car went over a bump and pain shot through her neck. Simon rubs her arm a little. She glances out the window. They're in Simon's neighborhood – they're almost home. In the morning she will pick up her dogs from her sister's. She will start packing for Nashville early, an entire suitcase for one day. She might fly in a day early, since her vacation has been cut so short.

Ryan kisses her cheek when he drops her and Simon off at the house. Simon unlocks the door and carries all the suitcases inside and she doesn't have to help. She, instead, goes up to the master and runs a bath. She's tired – they've been up since four am and it's late now, but she feels like she needs to wash some of this day away. She takes off her clothes methodically. She drops them into a pile of the floor, uncaring about wrinkling expensive fabrics. She's already in the tub when Simon comes in and sits on the edge. She looks up at him with sleepy eyes.

"Hi Beauty Queen," he says.

"I heard you talking to Ryan," she says, her voice low in her throat.

"I thought you were sleeping," he admits.

"I'm a big faker," she says.

"Makes me wonder what else you've been faking," he says. She wrinkles her nose.

"Not that," she promises. "But I wanted to tell you something and I've been wanted to tell you for some time and I decided that I'm just going to be brave and say it."

"Okay," he says.

"I love you, Simon," she says. "Or, rather, I'm in love with you." It is a brave thing to say and even though it's the right thing to say to him at this time, a wave of fear overcomes her and she sits up, brings her knees to her chest so she is small in the bathtub.

"Oh," he says. "Well."

"You don't have to say it back," she says, hurriedly.

"I know," he says. "But I do love you. Also," he says. "And I have for a very long time."

"How long?" she asks, demandingly.

"Much longer than I care to admit to you," he says. "And since we're admitting things, there are some other things I'd like to get off my chest."

"All right," she says. She steels herself for some bad news. For him to say, yes, I love you but it's not enough and I'm leaving.

"I've changed all my legal paperwork to list you as my next of kin," he says. "As well as my executor. Should something happen to me, you'll be the first notified, the one in charge of making all the decisions along with my lawyer and my accountant."

"Seriously?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. "I've also put you on the lease here, at the house, as well as put you on my main bank account so you've now got access to any funds you need should something happen that we... can't foresee." He smiles as if that is not a nice way to say something terrible.

"I'm..." She can't even say that she's speechless because there aren't any words. She knew, deep inside, that he loved her without saying it but she didn't know until know that he trusts her. This is Simon's declaration of love – this is his grand gesture. "Thank you." It's all she can manage.

"That's the good news," he says.

"Ah," she says. "The other shoe drops."

"Not exactly," he says. "But I feel that I ought to let you know that Terri is back in town."

"Oh," she says, her voice small. Around her, the water has begun to cool. She hasn't even washed her hair; it is pinned up instead. She'll shower in the morning. Before he can continue, she pulls the plug and lets the water start to swirl down the drain. He stands when she does, and he watches the water fall off her body. She stares at him pointedly and he grabs her a towel which she wraps snuggly around her body. He helps her step out of the tub, over her pile of clothes.

In the bedroom he waits for her to speak.

"I thought she'd moved back to England," Paula says, finally, standing in front of the closet that once belonged to Terri but now housed her clothing. Nothing looks appealing, so she moves to the bureau where she puts on Simon's gray t-shirt. It's not one of his nice ones, just cotton and threadbare, well worn.

"She's back to finish working the last weeks of Idol for Extra," he says. "I didn't want you to see her, to be surprised."

"Does she know that you and I are together?" Paula asks.

"Yes," he says. "I spoke to her briefly while you were in with your father."

"Does she hate me?" Paula asks.

"Probably," Simon says. "But that isn't our problem. We did nothing wrong."

"Oh, Simon," she says, pityingly, "We did everything wrong."

"No," he says. "This isn't wrong."

"Okay," she says. "I don't want to... not today, we aren't going to fight."

"She bought a house not far from here," Simon continues. "I told her when she came back, I'd help her and I'm going to stand by that but I just want you to know that what Terri and I once had is over."

"All right," she says. "I believe you."

"You do?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. "You know why?"

"Because I told you that I loved you?" he asks.

"No," she says. "Because you gave me access to your money." She is teasing, but really, in Simon Cowell's head, love and money have a stronger connection than is healthy. She watches him pull back the covers to the bed. She wonders what it will be like the first time she sees Terri – Paula deserves whatever Terri gives to her because Paula stole Simon right out from under her. Maybe Simon was willing to go, but still. Paula remembers all the times she and Terri joked about sharing Simon for the cameras, never expecting that to ever come true. Never expecting Paula to come out the victor.

"I hate this house," Paula says, once they are in bed. Simon has just turned off the lamp but now he turns it on and looks at her.

"What?"

"I hate it," she says. "It's laid out stupidly, there's no color, and now it's down the street from your ex. Can we find a new one? Or stay at my house forever?"

"Your house isn't big enough," Simon says. "You know that."

"Then?" Paula says. "Why do we have to stay here?"

"We don't," he says. "You know that I rent it. We could move out by the start of the summer, if you'd like."

"You could find something closer to my house," she says.

"You could sell your house," Simon offers. "We could just start fresh somewhere."

"Hmm," Paula says. "Do you think anyone who watches American Idol would notice if we bought a house and moved in together?"

"Yes," he says. "Do you care?"

"No," she says. "Do you?"

"Less and less," he says. He turns off the light and the room is dark.

In the morning, Simon has Paula's family over for breakfast before the visiting hours at the hospital start. Wendy arrives with the boys and with Jenny at 8:00am. Paula's sister looks around Simon's house in awe.

"It's enormous," he hears Wendy say to Paula. Paula shrugs in response, looking around at the house in distain.

"We're going to buy something better," she says. "I hate this house."

"Wait," Wendy says. "You and Simon are moving in together?"

"So," Simon says, looking at the boys and Jenny and away from a conversation he ought not to overhear. "I know you two, but who are you?"

Jenny swallows.

"I'm Jenny," she says. "We spoke on the phone, once."

"Ah yes," he says. "Well, you all must be hungry. My house keeper is graciously making us breakfast in the other room." He herds them into the next room where the breakfast buffet is laid out across the dining room table. Paula watches him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"You're being awfully nice," she says softly, watching her family dig in.

"Well," he says. "They're pretty much my family now, too, aren't they? Well, except for the blonde one. Don't really know her, but seems like a nice enough girl."

"This is all very strange," she says, walking away. "I didn't fall in love with Mr. Nice Guy, you should know."

"Don't worry darling, I promise to pick a fight later."

"Thanks," she says, and moves to sit next to her sister.

And he will. As it turns out, Simon and Paula's relationship will consist of one epic fight after another. They will fight about everything from what kind of carpet to put in their new Hollywood Hills mansion to whether to renew their contracts for American Idol for an additional two years. Paula will want to and Simon will balk at the very thought of doing the same show for twelve years but he will have no qualms with renewing his X-Factor contract indefinitely. Paula will want to spend the summer in L.A. and Simon will want to spend more and more time in England where they will also share a home.

Because, as it turns out, dating Simon Cowell will make Paula a huge celebrity in England, almost more so than in America, and she just won't want to face it.

They fight about the magazines finally catching wind of their romance. Paula will want to go on all the talk shows and just come clean about everything but Simon prefers to play coy even when everyone knows the truth. They'll fight about her new album, about the hours she puts in the studio and choreographing new dances for every song – he'll feel like he never sees her. She'll accuse him of trying to derail her career and he'll accuse her of being totally nuts and they'll scream and fight and then he'll go to sleep on the sofa.

She'll sneak down, later, in the night, and curl up next to him because she misses him and he'll hold her close, no questions asked. They always make up. When they fight, they'll say cruel things but neither will ever brings up calling it quits. No matter how mad they get, they don't ever want to be apart.

One time, Paula will go on David Letterman alone. He'll ask her when the wedding is and she's perfectly happy saying there won't be one.

"Simon has never really wanted to get married," she'll say. "And I've failed at it a lot. So no, no wedding."

"Have you even talked about it?" Dave will ask.

"Oh, sure," Paula will say. "I think if I wanted it, he'd do it, but we're so happy."

It's the truth. For every fight, for every hurtful word, for every apology and make-up session, it all boils down to them being so happy.

Sometimes they won't fight. Sometimes Paula will come home to see Simon on the couch, flipping through the channel guide and she'll curl up next to him and they'll spend the evening in, watching an old movie or giggling over old episodes of Idol Rewind or some brainless sitcom. He'll watch Family Guy with her and she'll watch the entire series of Fawlty Towers with him.

Sometimes they'll go out after Idol with Ryan and Randy and their pictures will show up in the magazines. Sometimes rumors of an impending break-up will circulate but they'll never amount to any thing. Still, they'll upset Paula and he'll remind her to take a deep breath when things threaten to overwhelm her.

"Breathe with me, darling," he will say, holding her hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

She fears that he'll leave her because men always leave her.

But Simon never will.

The thing she loves most about Simon, possibly, is his honesty and when he tells her that he isn't going anywhere, she believes him. From that first moment when she called him and asked him for help because she'd heard a scary noise in the dead of night, he has been there for her.

And she has been there for him, more, now, than just a pretty girl on his arm. They are partners, equals, and, of course, the best of friends.

The End


End file.
